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FISHERS    OF   MEN 


BOOKS  BY  S.  R.  CROCKETT. 


Uniform  edition.     Each,  umo,   cloth,  $1.50. 


The  Standard  Bearer. 

An  Historical  Romance. 
"  Mr.  Crockett's  book  is  distinctly  one  of  the  books  of  the  year. 
Five  months  oi  1898  have  passed  without  bringing  to  the  reviewers' 
desk  anything  to  be  compared  with  it  in  beauty  of  description,  con- 
vincing characterization,  absorbing  plot  and  humorous  appeal.  The 
freshness  and  sweet  sincerity  of  the  tale  are  most  invigorating,  and 
that  the  book  will  be  very  much  read  there  is  no  possible  doubt." — 
Boston  Budget. 

Lads'  Love. 

Illustrated. 
"  It  seems  to  us  that  there  is  in  this  latest  product  much  of  the  real- 
ism of  personal  experience.  However  modified  and  disguised,  it  is 
hardly  possible  to  think  that  the  writer's  personality  does  not  present 
itself  in  Saunders  McQuhirr.  .  .  .  Rarely  has  the  author  drawn  more 
truly  from  life  than  in  the  cases  of  Nance  and  'the  Hempie';  never 
more  typical  Scotsman  of  the  humble  sort  than  the  farmer  Peter 
Chrystie." — London  Atheticeum. 

Cleg  Kelly,  Arab  of  the  City. 

His  Progress  and  Adventures. 
Illustrated. 

"A  masterpiece  which  Mark  Twain  himself  has  never  rivaled.  .  .  . 
If  there  ever  was  an  ideal  character  in  fiction  it  is  this  heroic  raga- 
muffin."— London  Daily  Chronicle. 

Bog-Myrtle  and  Peat. 

Third  edition. 
"  Here  are  idyls,  epics,  dramas  of  human  life,  written  in  words  that 
thrill  and  burn.  .  .  .  Each  is  a  poem  that  has  an  immortal  flavor.  They 
are  fragments  of  the  author's  early  dreams,  too  bright,  too  gorgeous, 
too  full  of  the  blood  of  rubies  and  die  life  of  diamonds  to  be  caught 
and  held  palpitating  in  expression's  grasp."— Boston  Courier. 

The  Lilac  Sunbonnet.. 

Eighth  edition. 
"  A  love  story,  pure  and  simple,  one  of  the  old  fashioned,  whole- 
some, sunshiny  kind,  with  a  pure-minded,  sound-hearted  hero,  and  a 
heroine  who  is  merely  a  good  and  beautiful  woman ;  and  if  any  other 
love  story  half  so  sweet  has  been  written  this  year  it  has  escaped  our 
notice." — New  York  Times. 


D.  APPLETON   AND  COMPANY,  NEW   YORK. 


I'l*  as( .   sir,    I'm   thi    KidT     aid   .1   faini 


FISHERS   OF   MEN 


BY 

S.   R.   CROCKETT 

AUTHOR  OF     "the  lilac  sunbonnet,' 
"the  standard-bearer,"  etc. 


1) .    A  P  P  L  E  TON     AND    COMPAN  Y 

NEW    Y  C)  R  K 

190  6 


Copyright,  1906,  by 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Published   March,  1906 


PR 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  The  Kid  Succeeds  to  His  Title                                i 

II.     Principally  Pat 15 

III.  More  Pat 29 

IV.  The  "Knifer" 41 

V.    "Blind  Jacob's" 61 

VI.  Archbold  Molesay,  City  Missionary  ...     79 

VII.     Patricia's  Burglars 90 

VIII.    The  Pedigree  Man 105 

IX.    The  Heiress  on  Probation 115 

X.     Egham  Castle 131 

XI.    The  Fall  of  the  Kid 140 

XII.  The  "Hearne  Mackenzie"  Reformatory  .       .   157 

XIII.  Some  Walks  on  the  Moor 171 

XIV.  The  Coming  of  the  Kingdom  of  God  on  Maw 

Moss 180 

XV.    The  Trapped  Tiger 192 

XVI.    Schoolmaster  Grainer 210 

XVII.     Plot  the  First 227 

v 


CONTENTS 

CHArTER  PAGE 

XVIII.     Plot  the  Second 243 

XIX.  Plot  the  Third — and  Last         ....  258 

XX.     Parricide 272 

XXI.  Captain  Henderland,  Chief  of  Police  .       .  282 

XXII.  The  Bitterness  of  Death  is  Overpast  .       .  296 

XXIII.  "Oh,  dem  Golden  Slippers!"     ....  307 

XXIV.  "Can  a  Mother  Forget?" 316 

XXV.     Baby  Lant's  Repentance 336 

XXVI.  The  Last  Raid  of  "Blind  Jacob's"        .       .  352 

XXVII.     The  New  "B.  I.  P." 366 

XXVIII.    "1  Will  Arise!" 380 

XXIX.    The  Condemned  Cell 394 

XXX.    "It  is  Well!" 405 


VI 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING 
PAGE 


"'  Please,  sir,  I'm  the  Kid! '  said  a  faint  voice"  Frontispiece 

"'Come  in — come  in!  .  .   .  Make  yourselves  at  home!'"  .     98 

"'Speak,  my  child!     I  and  God  are  listening!'"   .        .        .    184 

"  The  next  moment  Hearne  Mackenzie  .   .   .  pulled  the  Kid 

behind  him  " 332 


vil 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 


CHAPTER    I 

THE    KID    SUCCEEDS   TO    HIS   TITLE 

LEXANDER  McGHIE  was  not  always  a 
bad  boy,  as  boys  went  in  Kirkmessan,  his 
native  place,  but  he  was  always  the  Kid — 
or  more  at  large,  Daft  Mag  McGhie's  Kid. 
He  had  a  father  also,  bound  to  the  Mag 
aforesaid  by  every  tie  of  law  and  gospel.  David  was  his 
name,  and  his  forefathers  had  been  respectable  men,  marry- 
ing respectable  wives,  till  in  the  fullness  of  time,  Davie, 
last  and  least  of  the  race,  tarrying  at  Portnessock  fair,  fell 
in  with  Mag  Caigton. 

After  that  the  descent  of  Avernus  (or  any  other  de- 
scent) was  easy  indeed.  Mag  Caigton  had  a  towsy, 
blowsy,  hearty-come-hearty-go  way  with  her,  which,  when 
she  was  yet  in  her  teens,  did  David  McGhie's  business  for 
this  life,  and  left  him  but  a  narrow  squeak  for  it  in  the 
next. 

The  Kid  was  nine  years  of  age  and  already  known  to 
all  Kirkmessan — from  the  turnip-girthed  provost  in  his  white 
waistcoat  to  the  waifs  and  strays  of  the  Back  Mill  Lands 
where  the  Kid  dwelt — when  his  father,  to  get  away  from  the 

1 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

clitter-clatter  which  on  washing  days  filled  all  Back  Mill 
Lands,  took  his  only  son  for  a  walk. 

"  Eh,  faither,"  said  the  Kid  to  his  companion,  "  but  what 
garred  ye  do  it  ?  " 

"Do  what?"  demanded  David,  looking  very  queer. 

"  Mairry  a  woman  like  yon?"  remarked  the  far-seeing 
youth. 

"  Faith,  and  that's  what  I  am  often  askin'  mysel' !  "  said 
David  McGhie,  instinctively  answering  as  if  he  had  been 
speaking  to  a  man  and  an  equal.  Most  of  his  wife's  qual- 
ities were  indeed  common  property — his  sorrows  the  town 
talk.  The  very  bairns,  when  they  saw  him  coming  past 
the  school  at  the  play  hour,  would  run  to  the  iron  railings, 
crying  with  one  voice : 

"  Willie  Wastle  dwalt  on  Tweed, 

The  spot  they  caa'ed  it  Linkumdoddie — 

Siccan  a  wife  as  Willie  had, 

I  wadna  gie  a  button  for  her  !  " 

In  the  course  of  their  walk  David  drew  the  Kid  into  a 
wood  and  said  to  him  quietly,  as  if  he  had  brought  some- 
thing good  to  eat,  for  which  he  was  groping  in  his  pocket, 
"D'ye  see  that?" 

That  was  a  pistol  with  two  barrels,  of  the  more  ancient 
sort,  throwing  a  ball  three  times  the  diameter  of  that  of  a 
modern  repeating  rifle.  All  this  happened  some  few  years 
ago,  and  they  hang  such  pistols  on  walls  now.  They  were 
common  then,  and  used  for  killing  things. 

"  Kid,"  said  his  father — that  is  to  say,  David  McGhie, 
Esquire,  of  Back  Mill  Lands  in  the  town  of  Kirkmessan — 
"  ye  see  this?  " 

"  Aye,"  said  the  Kid,  "  it's  a  wee  gun.  Where  gat  ye  sic 
2 


THE    KID    SUCCEEDS    TO    HIS    TITLE 

a  bonny  pistol,  daddy?  Is  it  yours,  and  can  I  get  the  lend 
o't  to  shoot  sparrows  wi'?  an'  young  corbies — an'  maybes 
an  odd  rabbit,  wha  kens?  " 

His  father  shook  his  head  slowly  and  sadly. 

"  I  borrowed  it,  Kid,"  he  answered,  "  but  for  no  such 
purpose.  It  shall  never  be  said  that  David  McGhie,  wha's 
forbears  lie  in  the  kirkyard  yonder,  demeaned  himsel'  to 
poachin'  rabbits  an'  ither  vermin !  " 

"  What  is't,  then,"  cried  the  Kid,  "  and  can  I  come  wi' 
ye,  daddy?  I'll  keep  brave  an'  quiet  i'  the  covers.  Never 
ye  doubt  it!  I  hae  been  there  afore  wi'  Steenie  Gormack, 
the  poacher  lad.  Tell  me,  daddy!  Is  it  pheasants  or  (here 
he  sunk  his  voice  to  a  whisper)  is  it  the  deer,  or  some  ither 
big  game  that  I  hae'na  seen  ?  " 

"Aye,  'deed,"  said  his  father,  "it's  big  game,  sonny!" 

"  Tell  me — oh,  tell  me,  daddy.  I'm  a'  in  a  reestle  to 
ken.     My  very  taes  they  winna  keep  quiet !  " 

But  his  father,  sitting  on  a  fallen  tree  (a  spruce  it  was 
with  curious  dark  feathery  plumes  like  a  hearse,  as  the  Kid 
remembered  after),  kept  him  some  time  waiting.  He  seemed 
to  have  a  difficulty  in  speaking.  Something  the  matter  with 
his  throat,  the  Kid  thought.  Perhaps  he  had  been  eating 
corn  and  had  half-swallowed  one  of  the  "  beards."  Nasty 
things  they  were,  too!    The  Kid  knew. 

Then  at  last  David  McGhie,  Esq.,  the  son  of  an  ex- 
cellent family,  spoke: 

"  Aye,  it's  big  game  that  this  bit  lump  o'  lead  is  for, 
Kid — big,  big  game!  It's  for  you  an  me,  sonny!  No, 
dinna  rin  awa'.  Ye  shall  hae  your  chance  after — after  I  hae 
spoken  to  ye,  sonny.     Sit  still  the  noo !  " 

And  with  the  failing  strength  of  an  arm  that  once  could 
swing  the  broadax  with  any  man,  David  McGhie  pinned  his 
son  to  the  trunk  of  the  spruce,  and  held  him  in  place  by 

3 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

means  of  a  leg  hooked  across  his  knees.  Then  he  leaned 
back  and  began  to  load  the  big  horse  pistol  carefully. 

"  Be  never  feared,  laddie,"  he  said,  "  it's  a  great  sin  I 
am  to  commit.  I  ken  that.  But  to  live  on  as  I  hae  been 
doin'  is  so  mickle  greater  a  sin,  that  I  hae  a  kind  o'  hope  that 
I  may  be  forgiven.    Because  my  mind  is  made  up " 

"  Made  up  to  what?  No  to  kill  yourself — no  to  kill 
me,  daddy?  " 

The  Kid's  voice  was  low  and  hoarse  now.  He  did  not 
recognize  himself  speaking,  though  he  knew  that  these  were 
something  like  the  words  he  wanted  to  say. 

"  To  pit  an  end  to  my  puir  wretched  days,  sonny,"  said 
David  McGhie,  with  the  slow-coming  determination  of  a 
weak  man  who  hardly  ever  determines  anything,  "  mine  be 
the  sin,  Alec.  Mine — mine — mine!  But  there  is  nae  ither 
way  for  it,  Kid,  that  I  can  see!  " 

"  Let  us  rin  away!  "  said  the  Kid  eagerly. 

"Useless — useless!"  groaned  his  father.  "She  wad 
catch  us  afore  ever  we  got  to  Carlisle.  And,  forbye,  I  prom- 
ised yon  things  afore  the  minister,  '  Till  death  us  do  pairt ' 
— that  was  what  he  made  me  say.  And  I  said  it.  It's  little 
that  is  left  to  the  McGhies  thae  days,  but  it  will  surely  be 
permitted  to  the  last  o'  them  to  keep  his  word.  Aye,  the 
last  o'  them,  laddie.  For  though  ye  bear  my  name,  ye  hae 
never  the  McGhie  nature.     Ye  are  your  mither's  son " 

"  Oh,  no,  faither,"  cried  the  Kid,  bursting  into  tears  of 
absolute  terror  at  the  accusation,  "  dinna  say  that,  faither. 
Dinna  deny  me — dinna  say  I  am  no  your  Kid !  " 

David  McGhie  stopped  his  cleaning  out  of  the  pistol  nip- 
ples to  lay  his  hand  on  his  son's  head. 

"  Deny  ye — never,  laddie,  never,"  he  said ;  "  I  forgot  that 
I  was  talkin'  o'  what  a  bairn  could  never  understand.  But 
there  is  Caigton  blood  in  ye,  Alec,  my  man,  and  that's  no 

4 


THE    KID    SUCCEEDS    TO    HIS    TITLE 

guid  bluid.  Airchie  Caigton  died  on  the  gallows — that's 
your  uncle;  your  grandfaither,  Auld  Pate,  was  killed  in  a 
smugglin'  tulzie  down  at  the  Burnfoot.  They  say  your 
granny's  mither  was  burned  for  a  witch  at  Portnessock. 
And  your  ain  mither — but  that's  maybe  somedeal  my  faut — 
has  been  afore  the  sheriff  twa  score  o'  times — aye,  an'  twa 
score  to  the  back  o'  that!  And  that's  what  for  I  am  giein' 
ye  this  chance — a  chance  that  ye  will  do  weel  to  tak' !  " 

As  he  talked,  the  quiet-eyed,  dull-faced  man  in  the  shabby 
black  clothes  went  on  methodically  with  his  loading  of  the 
horse  pistol.  Then  he  was  silent  for  a  space.  The  Kid 
shivered  and  fidgeted.  He  wondered  what  was  coming  next. 
It  is  dreadful  sometimes  not  to  know  what  is  coming.  But 
thinking  it  over  afterwards,  he  could  not  remember  that  he 
had  been  very  frightened,  which  was  still  more  strange — be- 
cause he  knew  somehow  that  his  father  was  mad.  Every- 
body said  he  must  have  been,  and  the  law — that  great  and 
wonderful  thing  which  never  errs — said  so,  too! 

"  It's  this  way,  Kid,"  said  the  quiet  man,  "  maybe  ye 
do  not  mind  what  day  it  is  the  morn  ?  " 

"  Aye,"  returned  the  Kid  readily,  "  it's  Friday — for  the 
housekeeper  up  at  McGhie's  hands  me  oot  a  piece  an'  a  penny 
every  Friday." 

"  I'll  gie  you  a  lickin',  Alexander,"  cried  his  father, 
anger  flashing  from  his  eyes  for  the  first  time,  "  if  ever  I 
hear  tell  o'  you  frequentin'  the  back  door  o'  sic  a  clan.  The 
McGhies  and  their  mansion  house,  indeed !  I  mind  when 
his  grandfather  ran  a  barrow  up  and  doon  a  plank,  when 
my  father  was  ridin'  his  hunter!  I  dare  you,  Alexander 
McGhie,  to  dishonor  your  ancestors.  If  ye  do,  I'll  tak'  the 
hide  aff  ye  wi'  a  flail !  " 

The  Kid  was  desirous  of  saying  that  the  housekeeper  at 
the  lodge  was  not  a  McGhie,  and  that  he  received  the  dole 

5 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

at  the  front  door,  not  the  back.  But  a  look  at  his  father's 
face  somehow  stopped  his  tongue.  After  his  sudden  flash  of 
temper  David  McGhie  subsided  into  his  old  quiet. 

"  What  I  have  to  say  to  you  is  this — "  he  said ;  "  it's  a 
chance  I  am  willin'  to  tak'.  This  world  is  no  longer  a  place 
for  me.  Ye  say  that  the  morn's  a  Friday,  and  it  is  on  that 
Friday  that  your  mither  will  come  back  on  us,  out  o'  St. 
Cuthbert's  Jail !  But  she  will  not  find  me — I  hae  a  prefer- 
ence, and  rather  than  face  her  I  prefer  to  face  an  offended 
Maker." 

With  a  movement  of  rude  dignity  he  took  off  his  battered 
hat,  and  his  early  gray  hairs  streamed  out  on  the  moderate 
wind. 

"  I  am  not  an  unreverent  man,  Kid,"  he  continued, 
"  and,  mind  you,  if  ye  will  not  come  with  me  this  day  the 
way  I  have  chosen  to  tread,  keep  aye  mind  to  be  reverent 
in  your  heart." 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do?"  asked  the  Kid  anx- 
iously.     "  What   way   are  you    takkin'    to   get   away   frae 

HER?" 

"This!"  said  the  quiet  man,  tapping  the  pistol  barrel, 
"just  this!" 

"  But  then  I'll  have  no  more  daddy!  "  wailed  the  boy, 
suddenly  breaking  down. 

"  No  more  daddy,"  agreed  the  quiet  man,  "  but  then  if 
you'll  take  my  advice,  you  will  not  need  one.  It  would  be 
better  than  going  back  to  her!  " 

Having  finished,  he  lifted  the  pistol  and  clicked  back  the 
huge  old-fashioned  dogs. 

"  One  for  me,"  he  said,  "  and  one  for  you!  " 

At  these  words  a  wild  and  frantic  terror  filled  all  the 
Kid's  heart.  He  wrenched  himself  clear  of  his  father  with 
a  jerk,  and  turned  a  complete  somersault  among  the  leaves 

6 


THE    KID    SUCCEEDS    TO    HIS    TITLE 

and  underbrush.  This  conducted  him  by  a  series  of  bumps 
and  leaps  to  the  bed  of  a  stream,  where  he  lay  shivering,  but 
for  the  moment  safe. 

"  I  dinna  want  to  die,  daddy,  I  dinna  want  to  die!  "  he 
cried  out  wildly. 

"  There  is  no  need,"  said  the  quiet  man,  speaking  from 
above ;  "  that  will  leave  two  for  me.  But  all  the  same  ye 
will  live  to  rue  it,  Alexander !  " 

Before  the  Kid  could  rise  from  the  slippery  pebbles  in 
the  bed  of  the  burn  he  heard  a  curious  scuffling  sound  as  of 
a  struggle,  and  then,  sharp  and  distinct,  like  a  thing  apart, 
the  noise  of  a  shot. 

The  great  doors  of  St.  Cuthbert's  Central  Prison  rolled 
slowly  back  like  lock-gates  turning.  Sullen  black  walls  rose 
up  into  the  midheavens,  making  another  night  against  the 
stars.  It  was  twelve  o'clock  on  Friday  night,  the  first  of 
May.  In  an  hour  or  two  all  the  young  lads  and  lassies  in 
the  countryside  would  be  rising  out  of  their  beds,  and  glanc- 
ing out  at  the  graying  morn,  so  as  to  be  well  up  the  Kirk- 
town  Fell  when  the  sun  rose.  There  they  would  wash  their 
faces  in  dew  and  plight  their  troth,  and  very  likely  a  couple 
or  two  would  exchange  an  innocent  kiss  behind  the  thick- 
est of  the  hedgerows  coming  home. 

It  was  the  first  of  May,  and  soon  the  things  that  were 
true  and  honest,  pure,  lovely,  and  of  good  report  would  be 
abroad,  the  virtue  and  the  praise  accompanying  them.  Also, 
per  contra,  Mag  McGhie  would  be  released  from  her  full 
year  of  "  time  "  served  in  the  penitentiary  of  St.  Cuthbert's. 
As  usual,  Mag's  prison  conduct  had  been  such  that  not  a 
day  could  be  remitted.  Rather,  if  such  had  been  possible, 
more  would  have  been  added  thereto.  And  at  her  exit  all 
that  Christie  Lawson,   the  head  jailer,  could   say  by  way 

7 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

of  Godspeed  to  Mag  was,  "  I  hope  you'll  be  such  a  good 
subject  of  her  Majesty's  that  by  the  grace  o'  God  we  will 
never  set  eyes  on  the  like  of  ye  again!  " 

"  Ye  coffee-colored  lump  o'  sin,"  retorted  his  amiable 
prisoner,  "I'd  talc'  to  hoose-breakin',  if  it  were  only  to  come 
back  and  plague  you,  ye  ill-set,  sornin'  barrel  o'  condemned 
militia  pork!  " 

From  this  specimen,  quite  an  average  one,  the  reason 
why  Mag  received  no  consideration  from  her  keepers  is 
obvious.  But,  all  the  same,  she  complained  bitterly  about 
favoritism.  She  came  out  at  midnight  into  the  blank  dark 
with  half  a  dozen  others,  sentenced  along  with  her  at  the 
same  sessions  of  justiciary  and  before  the  same  red  judge. 
One  or  two,  including  her  own  bosom  crony,  whose  mem- 
ory she  now  cursed,  were  not  of  this  little  band,  now  wait- 
ing so  impatiently  behind  the  barrier  for  liberation.  Bounc- 
ing Bet  Lock  had  gone  before  another  tribunal,  and  Sam 
Seefer's  case  had  also  been  called  for  final  revision. 

A  few  of  the  prisoners  thanked  one  or  other  of  their 
keepers.  Sentiment  was  far  from  dead  among  these  prison- 
stamped  men  and  women.  In  some  it  assumed  even  abnor- 
mal proportions.  One  young  lad  wept  to  leave  the  cell 
where  he  had  been  tended,  doctored,  and  fed.  It  was  the 
only  real  home  he  had  ever  known.  He  "  would  die  of  con- 
sumption," he  said.  "  He  would  never  live  through  the 
winter." 

"And  the  better  for  you,  ye  whimperin'  rat!"  cried 
Mag  McGhie  at  the  top  of  her  voice,  "  ye  have  not  the 
spunk  even  to  blow  your  nose  with  another  man's  hanky ! 

At  which  some  of  the  liberationists  laughed,  but  the 
prison  discipline  was  still  strong  enough  to  prevent  any- 
thing like  general  conversation.  And,  indeed,  it  was  only 
an  old  and  hardened  offender  like  Mag  who  spoke  at  all. 

8 


THE    KID    SUCCEEDS    TO    HIS    TITLE 

She  cursed  steadily — a  kind  of  devil's  paternoster  of  evil 
wishes  and  bitter  reflections  imprecated  upon  the  heads  of 
the  whole  prison  staff,  from  the  governor  to  the  kitchen 
scullion.     Mag  McGhie  concluded  her  orisons  thus: 

"  And  if  that  man  o'  mine  is  no  waitin'  wi'  siller  to  buy 
me  a  drink  an'  a  decent  gown,  faith,  I'll  slaughter  him,  the 
saft  useless  brosy  sumph  that  he  is!  " 

And  Mag  McGhie  brought  down  her  hand  on  the  arm 
of  her  next  neighbor  with  such  violence  that  she  cried  out 
with  the  pain,  and  the  sergeant  of  local  police  in  charge  of 
the  "  time  expireds  "  was  obliged  to  intervene. 

It  was  a  curious  sensation  wThen  out  of  the  flaring  naked 
gases  of  the  prison  corridor  the  little  band  of  the  emanci- 
pated found  themselves  fronting  the  dark,  while  behind  them 
the  doors  rumbled,  shutting  them  out  with  the  selfsame 
click  that  had  shut  them  in. 

The  flare-lamp  of  a  low  shebeening  lodging  house,  a 
refuge  of  crimps  and  thieves,  the  worst  in  all  St.  Cuth- 
bert's,  dazzled  the  eyes  of  the  ex-convicts.  The  hoarse  voice 
of  its  proprietor,  one  Darby  John,  deafened  them,  long  ac- 
customed to  prison  silences,  where  the  warder's  footfalls  are 
the  only  friendly  voices,  and  the  swish  of  the  sweeping  besom 
the  only  audible  "  sighing  of  the  prisoner." 

"  This  way,  brave  boys,  this  way,  fine  lads  all !  "  cried 
Darby  John,  a  great  hulk  of  a  man  with  beetle  brows,  a 
blue-black  hog-mane  of  hair,  shaven  jowl,  and  a  voice  like 
a  cracked  speaking  trumpet. 

"  Here  are  the  pots  o'  good  liquor!  Here  are  the  com- 
fortable beds,  and  if  anyone  hasn't  got  the  dollar,  why, 
hang  me,  if  honest  Darby  John  is  the  man  to  give  them  the 
worse  welcome  on  account  o'  that!  " 

There  were  also  in  the  crowd  which  waited  one  or  two 
soft-voiced  Sisters  of  Mercy  on  the  lookout  for  the  women 
2  9 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

prisoners,  a  Salvation  Army  captain  in  her  red-and-blue 
bonnet,  looking  chillish  in  the  skimp  clingsomeness  of  her 
official  waterproof.  The  Society  for  the  Employment  of 
Prisoners,  the  Aid  Society,  and  several  others  had  workers 
on  the  spot.  There  was  a  young  Presbyterian  minister  on 
the  watch  for  an  erring  sheep,  her  mother's  one  ewe  lamb  ; 
while  in  the  background,  a  little  retired  from  the  others, 
the  Catholic  priest  waited,  weary  but  not  dispirited,  for  the 
Tim  and  the  Mick  and  the  Pathrick  who  would  presently 
issue  forth.  He  was  fresh  to  his  district,  and  knew  none  of 
these  parishioners  at  all,  not  even  by  name.  But  what  mat- 
ter? Father  Macana  knew  that  when  he  held  up  his  hand 
his  sheep  would  know  their  shepherd's  voice,  if  it  were  only 
by  the  soft  Munster  accent. 

But  Mag  McGhie  would  have  none  of  all  these.  She 
went  through  them  like  smoke,  flinging  her  hoarse  curses  in 
the  face  of  all  who  attempted  to  stop  her. 

"  Out  o'  my  sight!  gawpin'  dirt  that  ye  are!  "  was  her 
best  word  for  the  mission  waiters. 

"  My  man,  the  hound,  the  sneakin'  hound,  where  is 
he?  "  she  cried,  "  just  let  me  see  him!  I'm  the  woman  that 
will  let  daylight  through  his  useless  calf's  carcass.  Let  me  be 
at  him  with  a  decent  bit  o'  timber,  and  I'll  make  a  hole  in  his 
chump  big  enough  for  the  poolies  to  drown  themselves  in!  " 

But  there  came  no  answer  to  the  furious  crying  of  the 
virago.  The  dumb  night  circled  her  about,  deadening  her 
words,  making  the  oaths  seem  merely  foolish.  Shriek  as 
she  would,  there  was  no  response.  At  last  the  sergeant  and 
two  of  his  men  who  had  been  superintending  the  jail  deliv- 
ery, from  the  point  of  view  of  experts  and  (in  the  case  of 
the  sergeant)  old  acquaintances,  moved  Mad  Mag  on,  still 
cursing  and  foaming  at  the  mouth,  because  of  the  unaccount- 
able absence  of  her  husband — "  that  useless,  brainless,  thew- 

10 


THE    KID    SUCCEEDS    TO    HIS    TITLE 

less  deil's  buckie,  Davie  McGhie,  with  the  backbone  of  a 
snail  and  the  heart  of  Moses's  own  pig." 

Of  the  threats  she  uttered  there  is  no  need  to  write 
further,  nor  yet  of  the  language  in  which  they  were  couched. 
Darby  John,  even  he  shrank  before  Mag's  fame  when  her 
transports  were  upon  her.  For  she  would  take  a  knife  as 
soon  as  another  her  nails.  And  when  angered,  as  to-night, 
it  was  reported  on  good  authority  that  she  was  the  equal 
of  any  two  men,  even  if  they  were  both  of  them  Darby 
Johns. 

He  gave  her  a  drink,  however,  with  a  shrewd  eye  to 
further  custom,  and  presently  the  woman  staggered  away, 
dogged  most  persistently  by  a  small,  nimble,  dodging,  but 
inevitable  shadow. 

These  two  came  to  the  town  edge,  passed  into  the  woods, 
heard  the  river  beneath  softly  talking  to  itself  down  in  the 
dark.  All  the  way  Mag  clattered  on,  devising  new  tortures 
for  the  absent  Davie,  her  husband.  The  small  dodging 
shadow  followed  without  sound,  without  drawing  breath, 
always  nearer  and  nearer.  It  was  not  far  now  to  Kirkmessan. 
It  could  not  be,  for  already  the  dawn  was  coming  up  out  of 
the  east.  The  pair  had  traveled  far.  Rare,  chill,  cold, 
with  a  single  eyelash  of  fire  where  the  light  touched  a  flecked 
cloud  immeasurably  high,  they  saw  before  them  the  plain 
pearl-gray   face   of   the  dawn. 

Mag  raged  as  she  recognized  the  huddle  of  white  build- 
ings. She  shook  her  fist  at  the  very  church  steeples.  A 
haughty,  unregenerate  Gallio  in  slatternly  garments,  she 
cared  for  none  of  these  things.  She  spat  on  the  gateposts 
of  the  manses,  threw  dirt  at  the  provost's  windows,  and  was 
only  persuaded  away  by  a  night  policeman,  who  told  her 
that  she  was  wanted  at  "  home  " — that  is,  in  the  gabled, 
whitewashed  barrack  in  Back  Mill   Lands  which  still,   in 

11 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

spite  of  loans  and  wadsets,  called  the  last  of  the  McGhies 
its  lord. 

This  policeman,  Patrick  Adair,  a  pitiful  man  where 
women  were  concerned,  saw  Mag  safe  to  the  entrance  of 
Back  Mill  Lands.  Farther  than  that  he  would  not  go, 
that  is,  not  without  Jock  Higgs,  his  mate.  Back  Mill  Lands 
was  no  place  for  a  single  man,  nor,  when  he  was  married, 
for  his  wife. 

It  is  to  be  noted  that  Mag,  perhaps  in  compliment  to 
Patrick  Adair's  good  looks  and  condition  of  bachelorhood, 
cursed  a  shade  less  vehemently  while  under  his  care.  She 
even  made  the  semblance  of  a  toilet  by  passing  her  fingers 
through  the  matted  tangle  about  her  brow,  whose  luxuriance 
prison  discipline  had  not  been  able  wholly  to  subdue. 

But  Back  Mill  Lands  it  was.  There  was  the  house. 
His  house,  the  poltroon!  He  had  never  so  much  as  lighted 
a  fire.  Very  likely  he  would  have  nothing  for  her  to  eat — 
still  more  (and  worse),  nothing  to  drink!  All  her  anger, 
half-evaporated,  began  to  return.  She  looked  about  for  a 
weapon  wherewith  to  enforce  her  entrance  into  her  home. 
The  forge  of  Tom  Dinwiddie,  the  village  smith,  was  at  her 
right  hand ;  Gregg  the  baker's  at  her  left.  In  front  of 
Gregg's  stood  his  bread  van,  carefully  dismantled,  the  shafts 
in  the  air.  Nothing  inside  except  a  smell  of  yesterday's 
buns,  and  the  last  farinaceous  sigh  of  many  departed  four- 
pound  loaves.  Nothing,  at  least,  to  suit  Mad  Mag  in  search 
of  an  argument. 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  Tom  Dinwiddie,  late  at  work 
repairing  the  wheel  of  the  said  bread  van  (which  had  worked 
loose  on  its  pin),  had  left  his  largest  "spanner"  lying  on 
the  ground,  four  pounds  of  good  cold  iron,  and  of  a  con- 
venient shape  to  the  hand.  Mag  took  it  up  for  the  pur- 
poses of  marital  discussion,  hefting  it  with  satisfaction. 

12 


THE    KID    SUCCEEDS    TO    HIS    TITLE 

As  she  reached  the  door,  the  light  of  morning  was  look- 
ing in  more  clearly  between  the  chimney  pots  of  the  Cross 
Keys,  which  opened  on  the  square,  and  the  squat  smoke- 
blackened  vent  of  Tom  Dinwiddie's  smithy. 

Mag  rattled  violently  at  the  door.  Silence  abode  within. 
She  called  loudly  promised  vengeances  dire  upon  the  mis- 
creant David.  Again  she  held  out  bribes.  But  the  door  re- 
mained shut.  Rigorous  silence  maintained  itself  within.  A 
sudden  flash  of  fear,  or  something  like  it,  ran  through  the 
woman's  mind. 

Could  he  have  run  away?  No;  she  decided  that  he 
dared  not.  It  was  not  in  him.  Run  away,  indeed,  no! 
However  fast  and  however  far,  well  David  McGhie  knew 
that  there  was  no  city  or  parish  so  distant  or  so  well  hidden 
that  he  could  abide  safe  from  Mag  Caigton's  vengeance. 

Heads  began  to  appear  from  the  scandalized  houses  sur- 
rounding Back  Mill  Lands — heads  unkempt  and  middle- 
aged,  heads  old  and  white-mutched,  heads  young  and  curl- 
papered.  In  these  parts  the  men  did  not  bother  to  put  on 
their  trousers  for  less  than  a  fire. 

"  Oh,  it's  juist  Mad  Mag  hame  again !  "  said  the  women 
to  the  unseen  questioners  within,  "she's  the  deil's  ain  brat! 
She  will  no  be  lang  here.  The  poliss  will  soon  have  her 
by  the  wrists  again  for  something.  But  in  the  meantime 
Guid  peety  David  McGhie,  honest  man.  He  has  a  sair 
burden  on  his  back!"  "Aye,  guidwife  "  (from  one  of  the 
less  censorious  sex),  "I  ken  weel  that  David  buckled  the 
burden  on  his  back  himsel'.  But  that  makes  it  nane  the 
easier  to  carry,  that  I  ken  o'/  " 

Finally  tiring  of  her  fruitless  assaults  on  the  flaked  and 
peeling  front  door,  Mag  took  her  way  round  to  the  back, 
and  there,  turning  the  corner  smartly,  she  was  too  quick  for 
the  small  figure  which  had  hitherto  dogged  her.     She  got 

13 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

him  by  the  slack  of  his  trousers— a  pair  of  his  father's, 
banded  and  furled  without  remaking,  by  a  kindly  neighbor— 
and  hauled  him  out  for  judgment  and  slaughter. 

"  Now,  then,"  she  demanded,  "  what's  a'  this  aboot? 
Where's  your  faither,  the  dirty  scoundrel  ?  " 

"  He  couldna  come!  " 

"Couldna  come— a  likely  story,"  shrieked  the  terror 
of  Back  Mill  Lands;  "  he's  hidin',  mair  likely.  And  what's 
mair,  ye  ken  where  he  is!  " 

"  Mithei-j  he's  deid !  He  killed  himsel'  wi'  a  pistol.  He 
wanted  to  kill  me.  It  was  because  ye  were  comin'  hame. 
He  thocht  he  had  better!  " 

Mag  McGhie  lifted  the  spanner  and  struck — faithfully, 
as  if  he  had  been  her  husband  instead  of  her  son,  a  man 
instead  of  a  child.  The  Kid  fell  prone,  without  a  word. 
And  in  an  hour  Mag  McGhie  was  celebrating  her  widow- 
hood in  the  police  cells,  with  the  chance  of  hanging  by  the 
neck  till  she  was  dead,  if  the  Kid  did  not  recover.  For 
from  his  window,  too  far  away  to  interfere,  Tom  Din- 
widdie,  the  smith,  had  seen  the  deed  done,  and  knew  the 
weapon  that  did  it.  Thereafter  Mag  flung  the  spanner 
into  the  deepest  pool  in  the  Messan  water,  regardless  of 
the  needs  of  justice,  or  the  loss  of  an  important  "  piece  of 
conviction."  And  Tom  Dinwiddie  swore  by  his  favorite 
forchammer  that  he  would  hang  Mag  himself  if  the  bairn 
died. 

The  Kid  had  never  been  before — and  it  was  a  long 
time  ere  he  was  again — so  popular  in  Back  Mill  Lands,  the 
heritage  of  his  fathers. 


14 


CHAPTER    II 

PRINCIPALLY   PAT 

IGH  on  a  pleasant  bank  outside  the  town  of 
Kirkmessan,  on  a  choice  site  carefully  se- 
lected to  show  the  building  to  the  best  ad- 
vantage, stood  "  Balmaghie,"  the  beautiful 
castellated  residence  of  P.  Brydson  McGhie, 
Esq.,  J.  P. — otherwise,  his  house. 

P.  Brydson  claimed  to  belong  to  the  ancient  and  well- 
considered  family  of  the  McGhies,  the  feudal  lords  of  Kirk- 
messan. And  so  he  did.  He  further  claimed  to  be  the 
McGhie,  the  head  of  the  name.  But  here  he  erred  griev- 
ously, as  Davie  of  the  Back  Mill  Lands  would  have  had  no 
difficulty  in  showing,  if  he  had  cared  a  happ'orth  about  the 
matter.  However,  he  did  not,  having,  as  has  been  shown, 
something  else  upon  his  mind,  which  might  well  have  occu- 
pied that  of  a  stronger  man. 

Nevertheless,  there  were  those  in  the  town  of  Kirkmes- 
san who  did  not  forget.  Genealogies  were  long  remembered 
in  that  parish,  especially  if  there  was  anything  shady  about 
them. 

There  was,  for  instance,  little  Archie  Craw,  the  hunch- 
back "writer,"  who  (it  is  supposed)  was  engaged  in  com- 
piling a  history  of  the  town.  He  had  proceeded  so  far  that 
he  had  reduced  to  writing  all  the  malicious  stories  afloat 

15 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

about  every  family  in  the  three  streets — Main,  King's,  and 
High — not  by  any  means  excluding  his  own,  with  most  of 
the  members  of  which  he  was  at  variance,  as  became  a 
country  lawyer  with  a  reputation  for  "  good-going  "  pleas. 

Bitter  Airchie  (he  was  always  so  called)  could  have 
told  you,  and  indeed  did  tell  everyone  who  cared  to  listen 
and  some  who,  being  obliged  to  Archie,  had  to  listen  whether 
they  liked  it  or  not,  how  David  of  Back  Mill  Lands  was 
the  true  and  only  original  McGhie  of  McGhie  and  Kirk- 
messan,  whose  direct  male  ancestor  had  retour  of  the  lands 
in  1585  when  the  Lords  of  the  Congregation  were  dis- 
tributing that  which  did  not  belong  to  them.  Consequently 
the  succession  of  these  valuable  estates,  together  with  the 
rightful  title  of  "  The  McGhie,"  descended  to  the  son  of  the 
aforesaid  David,  otherwise  Alexander  the  Kid,  the  hero  of 
this  story. 

Now  at  this  point  comes  in  a  warning.  If  any  far- 
sighted  reader,  glinting  a  knowing  eye  onward  to  the  last 
chapter  in  the  expectation  of  great  inheritance,  expects  to 
find  the  Kid  a  knight  of  the  shire  and  strong  on  the  game 
laws,  that  reader  is  in  the  way  of  disappointment.  Save 
in  the  matter  of  barren  honor,  the  Kid's  ancient  descent 
never  did  him  the  least  good. 

"  Aye,"  said  Bitter  Little  Airchie,  the  writer  of  Kirk- 
messan,  sinking  his  head  deep  between  his  shoulders  like  a 
stork  in  a  shower,  "  aye,  auld  Paitrick  up  yonder  has  bravely 
feathered  his  nest,  as  ye  see.  They  tell  me  they  can  make 
something  they  caa  '  alumeenium '  oot  o'  plain  burnside 
clay.  Weel,  that  auld  sinner  has  make  minted  gowd  oot  o' 
gye  queer  dirt.  Awhile  at  the  '  pack  '  and  siller  made  oot  o' 
that — awhile  at  the  money  lendin'  (on  the  strict  Q.  T. 
as  the  sang  says),  and  piles  and  barrowloads  o'  money  made 
oot  o'  that!     Then  contractin'  on   a  lairge  scale,   a  braw 

16 


PRINCIPALLY    PAT 

white  waistcoat,  a  gowd  chain  as  thick  as  your  wrist,  then 
the  bench  o'  justices,  and  word  sent  on  ahead  to  Sant  Peter 
at  the  Muckle  White  Yett  to  keep  a  reserved  seat  for  P. 
Brydson  McGhie,  Esq.,  of  Balmaghie!" 

Now  take  away  the  spite  in  which  the  tongue  of 
Bitter  Little  Airchie  Craw  lived  and  waggled  like  an  engine 
bearing  in  oil,  and  there  remains  no  very  unjust  or  incom- 
plete sketch  of  the  life  of  Patrick  Brydson  McGhie,  the 
fortunate  member  of  a  younger  branch  which  had  thus 
redeemed  the  fortunes  of  his  ancient  fallen  house. 

"  But,"  continued  the  bitter  one,  "  I  forgot  the  family. 
There's  the  mistress — she's  a  fine  adjunct  to  the  carriage 
and  pair.  I  canna  say  mair  nor  better  aboot  her  than  that. 
When  ye  see  the  bonny  spankers,  chesnut  and  yella  leather, 
come  clippin'  it  up  the  High,  and  the  landau  (or  is  it  a 
baroosh?)  fresh  frae  Penman's  yaird — a'  chocolate  and 
broon,  lined  wi'  fine  strokes  o'  scarlet  dune  wi'  Crombie's 
ain  hand!  Oh,  it's  braw — Lord,  sirce,  but  the  carriage  is 
braw!  But  what  wad  it  be  withoot  Mrs.  Brydson  P. 
McGhie,  set  up  there  a'  to  match  wi'  broon  sable  fur,  and 
boas  and  constrictors,  and  muffs  an'  puffs,  a'  broon  and 
chocolate,  and  nocht  crimson  aboot  her  except  maybe  the 
point  o'  her  nose,  gin  it  be  a  cauld  day! 

"Speak?  No;  what  for  should  she  speak?  Doth  an 
image,  graven  by  airt  an'  man's  device,  speak?  Doth  a 
mantelpiece  ornament  engage  in  conversation  on  the  land 
laws  and  the  price  o'  snuff?  Go  to,  Bailie.  Ye  ask  ower 
muckle.  Mistress  P.  Brydson  is  a  credit  to  oor  toon  o' 
Kirkmessan,  and  that  I  will  maintain!" 

But  not  even  Bitter  Little  Airchie  had  a  word  to  say 
against  the  young  folks  who  were  growing  up  in  the  great, 
expensive,  natural-wood-fitted  mansion  of  "  Balmaghie." 
The  turned  commas  must  not  be  forgotten.     They  are  the 

17 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

hall  mark  of  the  suburban  house  with  pretensions,  and  in 
this  case  they  prevented  the  cruel  disgrace  of  the  residence 
of  P.  Brydson  McGhie  being  vulgarly  numbered  107  High 
Street,  which,  according  to  the  Burgh  Extension  Act,  it 
should  have  been,  if  Mr.  P.  B.  McGhie  had  not  been  a  large 
rate-payer. 

Great,  however,  as  he  was  without,  P.  Brydson,  even 
as  a  justice  of  the  peace,  was  a  failure  indoors.  His  wife 
told  him  when  she  wanted  more  money,  but  otherwise  was 
perfectly  contented  not  to  see  his  face  for  ten  minutes  in 
the  day — outside,  that  is,  of  mealtimes. 

His  sons  were  mostly  away  at  school  and  college,  and 
when  at  home,  squandered  treasures  of  ingenuity  in  avoid- 
ing "  the  pater,"  which  would  have  placed  them  high  in  any 
examination,  oral  or  written. 

That  Patrick  Brydson  had  three  daughters  need  be  no 
sort  of  a  surprise  to  anyone.  He  was  just  the  kind  of 
bulgy,  comfortable,  arm-chairy  man  who  would  be  sure  to 
have  three  daughters,  and  to  be  so  proud  of  the  fact  as  to 
be  completely  ruled  by  them — all  the  time,  mark  you,  de- 
claiming strongly  as  to  the  necessity  of  the  head  of  a  house 
keeping  his  family  in  order,  inculcating  respect  for  author- 
ity, putting  the  young  in  their  places,  and,  in  general, 
upholding  obedience,  subordination,  and  the  eternal  laws. 

"  Eternal  b-o-s-h  !  "  exclaimed  Patricia  McGhie,  the 
second  in  age  of  the  daughters,  somewhat  disrespectfully, 
as  her  father,  after  delivering  an  address  with  his  coat  tails 
parted  before  the  fire,  went  out,  slamming  the  door  behind 
him. 

"  Patricia,"  cried  Marthe,  the  eldest  of  the  three  (she 
was  full  twenty),  "you  must  not  speak  that  way  of  your 
father.     I  forbid  it!  " 

Pat  McGhie  arranged  herself  before  the  fire,  pretended 
18 


PRINCIPALLY    PAT 

to  blow  her  nose  indignantly  on  an  altogether  invisible 
handkerchief,  and  having  thrust  a  pair  of  thumbs  into 
equally  imperceptible  waistcoat  pockets,  she  drummed  "  Pe- 
ter-Dick-Pot-Stick "  with  her  fingers  upon  her  blouse.  Ata- 
lanta  laughed  at  her  sister's  boldness. 

"I  will  not  have  it!"  repeated  Marthe,  stamping  her 
little  foot. 

"  Save  us!  Have  they  made  you  a  J.  P.,  too,  Marthe?  " 
cried  Pat,  playing  with  the  big  maps,  which  rolled  and 
unrolled  out  of  a  sort  of  wooden  "  hidie  hole  "  arranged 
under  the  cornice.  The  girls  were  in  the  schoolroom. 
For  it  was  Saturday  morning,  and  according  to  the  laws  of 
Balmaghie  (which,  like  stupid  people's  opinions,  never 
altered)  the  two  housemaids  were  "  doing  "  the  girls'  own 
little  sitting  room.  It  was  owing  to  this  that  they  had 
come  across  their  father,  and  had  received  a  lecture  on  the 
danger  of  making  and  cultivating  undesirable  acquaintances. 

"  All  very  well,"  commented  Patricia,  after  her  father 
had  gone  out,  and  the  sound  of  his  heels  had  done  tap- 
tapping  on  the  black-and-white  tiles  of  the  hall,  "  all  very 
well!  We  are  not  to  know  Jim  This,  because  his  father  is 
a  farmer,  and  can  be  seen  in  the  mart  on  Mondays,  bidding 
for  hoggets  and  yearlings.  We  mustn't  know  Tom  That, 
because  his  father  once  kept  an  hotel.  Or  let  the  minister 
come  too  often  because  he  has  only  two  hundred  a  year,  and 
all  minister's  wives  have " 

"  Hush,  will  you?  "  said  Marthe,  blushing.  "  If  father 
thinks  that  he  needs  to  speak  to  us  about  such  things,  it's  no 
business  of  yours!  " 

"  No,"  retorted  Patricia,  making  a  little  mouth  at  her 
sister,  "  perhaps  not.  At  least  the  minister  is  not.  But 
the  cap  is  perhaps  a  little  too  near  our  dear  Marthe's  size. 
That  was  a  long  talk  we  had  with  Mr.  Symington  all  alone 

19 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

on  prayer-meeting  night.  Interesting  little  sinner!  Pretty 
too!  Faithful  pastor!  What  was  he  saying  all  the  time,  I 
wonder?  " 

"That  is  none  of  your  business,  miss!"  said  her  elder 
sister,  a  little  tartly  for  her. 

"  Ah,  hum,  of  course  not,"  said  Patricia  the  irrepressible, 
"of  course  not!  Secret  of  the  confessional,  and  all  that — 
we  understand,  eh,  Atalanta?" 

"  We  understand!  "  echoed  Atalanta,  smiling,  glad  to  be 
included. 

Martha,  Marta,  Marthe,  the  eldest  of  the  three  girls, 
turned  on  her  youngest  sister. 

"  Perhaps  Patricia,  who  is  old  enough  to  know  how  to 
behave  herself,  can  say  what  she  likes,"  she  said,  rapping 
the  words  out  smartly,  "  but  you,  Atalanta,  make  a  great 
mistake  if  you  think  you  can  do  so.  Go  to  your  practicing 
this  instant,  and  don't  let  me  see  you  lift  your  head  for  an 
hour.  Or,  if  you  don't,  I'll  get  you  sent  back  to  be  drag- 
onized  for  another  year  at  Madame  Faber's*  You  know 
I  can  easily  persuade  the  mater,  and  what  she  says,  the  pater 
will  do.  He  thinks  three  girls  in  the  house  too  many  as 
it  is!" 

"  Well,"  said  Pat  the  freebooter,  whose  speech  was 
always  unfettered,  "  you,  Marthe,  are  going  the  right  way 
about  it  to  leave  only  two.     Bless  you,  my  children!  " 

As  she  spoke  she  extended  a  hand  high  over  her  elder 
sister's  head.  Marthe  McGhie  was  a  little  brown-skinned 
girl  with  the  red  of  health  and  good  humor  glowing  in 
cheeks  which  reminded  you  constantly  of  some  ripe  and 
wholesome  fruit.  On  this  occasion  she  turned  away  with- 
out deigning  an  answer.  But  she  kept  her  eye  on  Atalanta, 
who  did  not  venture  to  dispute  her  authority,  but  took  her- 
self off  in  the  direction  of  the  music  room,  her  lips  mutter- 

20 


PRINCIPALLY    PAT 

ing  darkly  what  seemed   to  be  variations  upon   the  theme 
of  "  Ha-ha,  a  day  will  come!  " 

The  three  McGhie  girls  were  considered  "  very  dif- 
ferent," though,  by  general  consent,  all  were  eminently 
"  nice "  girls — good  friends  to  make,  good  housekeepers, 
clever  at  many  things,  and  with  a  most  notable  faculty  of 
"  getting  on  with  people,"  which  their  parents  lacked  in  a 
quite  extraordinary  degree. 

The  Marthe  the  town  knew  was  a  little,  bright,  dusky 
thing,  with  red  lips  that  were  often  tightly  compressed — 
a  paragon  of  district  visitors  interested  in  all  church  work, 
a  prop  of  meetings,  societies,  and  Dorcas  cuttings-out.  She 
was  reported  to  make  her  own  clothes,  so  as  to  give  away 
the  equivalent  portion  of  her  allowance.  But  at  any  rate, 
if  she  did,  her  appearance  never  betrayed  it.  Marthe  was 
always  perfectly  dressed.  Even  her  enemies,  such  as  she 
had,  allowed  that  much.  Bright,  kind,  busy-bee  little 
Marthe,  it  did  one  good  to  meet  you  in  the  street,  and  the 
smile  in  the  brown  eyes  and  the  kindness  about  the  quietly 
smiling  mouth,  did  many  a  man  besides  the  minister  good 
as  he  took  off  his  hat  to  the  quick,  trim  figure  on  her  daily 
rounds. 

If  the  collected  male  youth  of  Kirkmessan  had  been 
assembled  and  the  sentiment  given  (they  were  great  on 
"sentiments"  in  Kirkmessan)  as  it  used  to  be  at  the  old 
Christmas  and  Hogmanay  parties  long  ago — "  Kneel  to  the 
prettiest,  bow  to  the  wittiest,  and  kiss  the  girl  you  like  best  " 
— it  is  certain  that  little  Marthe  would  have  found  herself 
saluted  copiously,  even  to  embarrassment.  Very  popular 
was  the  little,  dimpled,  brown  thing.  She  might  not  exactly 
be  all  you  wanted  as  your  sweetheart,  but  she  was  just  the 
very  girl,  down  to  the  ultimate  hair,  in  whom  you  wanted 
to  confide  about  ycur  sweetheart. 

21 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

"  She's  too  attractive  to  be  an  auld  maid,"  said  Bitter 
Little  Airchie  Craw,  who  melted  at  the  sight  or  even  the 
thought  of  Marthe ;  "  but,  oh,  if  it  had  been  the  will 
of  Providence,  what  an  auld  maid  she  wad  hae  made — 
far  oot  o'  the  common.  She  wad  hae  sweetened  half  the 
town !  " 

And  the  little  bitter  one  thought  with  a  sudden  gravity 
of  an  only  sister,  who  had  sweetened  the  greater  part  of  his 
own  lonely  life — now,  alas!  growing  acrid  again  because 
she  had  been  laid  away  under  the  sod. 

Concerning  Patricia  McGhie  opinions  varied.  Accord- 
ing to  common  report,  she  had  a  tongue  capable  upon  oc- 
casion of  "  clipping  clouts."  She  had  even  worsted  Bitter 
Airchie  himself,  "  writer  "  as  he  was,  and  great  wit  as  he 
set  up  to  be,  in  a  battle  of  words.  For  the  average  young 
man  of  Kirkmessan  and  the  neighborhood,  Pat  McGhie  was 
altogether  too  clever.  There  was  something  in  her  eye,  a 
laughing  twink  of  light  (like  a  far-away  lighthouse  at  night), 
which  suggested  that  the  young  lady  did  not  regard  you  too 
seriously.  This  proved  disconcerting  to  the  rural  mind,  and 
even  town  men  of  eminence  had  been  discouraged  thereby. 

Patricia  was  tall,  but  not  too  tall,  otherwise  dark,  lithe, 
and  holding  herself  like  a  trained  gymnast.  She  usually  had 
a  dog  following  her,  sometimes  two,  and  when  she  wanted 
them  she  set  a  couple  of  fingers  to  her  mouth  and  whistled 
like  a  shepherd  on  the  hills.  This  was  considered  to  unfit 
her  for  all  respectable  society  in  Kirkmessan.  But  some 
thought  otherwise. 

Atalanta  was  only  seventeen  ("  going  eighteen  "  as  she 
put  it)  and  as  "  pretty  as  a  picture,"  or  rather  as  a  Christ- 
mas card  of  the  old-fashioned  sort.  She  had  blue  eyes, 
placed  a  little  wide,  fair  hair  that  crisped  and  curled  re- 
belliously,  a  straight  nose,  and  as  Gilbert  McGhie  said,  with 

22 


PRINCIPALLY    PAT 

a  brother's  lack  of  enthusiasm,  she  "  promised  to  be  not  bad 
looking  when  once  she  had  shaken  herself  together."  But 
since  this  Gilbert,  then  at  college,  was  growing  in  lumps  and 
annexes  almost  from  day  to  day,  he  need  not  have  talked, 
as  Patricia  immediately  and  very  clearly  pointed  out. 

Atalanta  also  was  tall,  and  carried  her  head  as  if  she 
were  proud  of  it,  as  indeed,  in  the  opinion  of  many  (even 
of  her  own  sex),  she  had  a  good  right  to  be.  That  she 
was  not  so  wise  and  sedate  as  Marthe,  nor  so  clever  as 
Pat,  was  held  to  be  no  detriment.  She  was  certainly  pretty 
beyond  prettiness.  And  is  that  not  the  whole  duty  of  the 
third  of  three  sisters,  ever  since  all  the  romancers  were 
young? 

Altogether,  there  was  not  a  trio  of  young  women  like 
them  in  the  parish,  and  in  the  public  regard  they  redeemed 
even  the  "  pit  from  which  they  were  digged,"  as  Bitter 
Airchie  called  their  immediate  parentage. 

As  for  their  brothers,  Gilbert  was  a  nice  lad.  Tom  was 
a  nice  laddie.  Peter  was  a  nice  boy — only  Bob  (next  to 
Gilbert)  was  a  "  deil,"  and  in  his  own  person  revived  all 
the  family  disgrace.  Bitter  Airchie  sometimes  said  that  this 
was  a  relief  to  him  when  he  looked  at  the  girls  and  thought 
of  P.  Brydson. 

Restored  to  their  own  sitting  room,  the  three  girls  occu- 
pied themselves  variously.  Busy-bee  little  Marthe  cut  out 
blouses  for  her  next  jumble  sale.  Blouses,  she  found,  sell 
best — at  least,  where,  as  at  Kirkmessan,  there  are  many 
young  women  among  the  buying  population.  Miraculously 
poised  upon  the  arms  of  two  chairs  with  her  feet  upon  the 
window  sill,  Patricia  alternately  dipped  into  the  sixth  vol- 
ume of  Froude's  "  History  of  England  "  and  criticised  her 
sister's    work,    till    with    more    than    her    natural    vivacity 

23 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

Marthe  invited  her  lazy  sister  to  take  the  scissors  and  "  do 
it  herself." 

Baby  Lant — Atalanta's  earliest  attempt  at  her  own  pre- 
tentious name — lay  back  on  the  sofa,  at  ease  among  the 
pillows,  content,  first  of  all,  that  she  was  not  at  school ; 
secondly,  that  she  had  not  to  practice;  determined  (thirdly) 
not  to  read ;  subtly  conscious,  too,  of  the  pleasant  reflection 
which  the  big  mirror  with  the  water  lilies  painted  over  it 
sent  back  to  her.  She  was  not  anxious  for  any  occupation. 
In  the  meantime  she  polished  her  pretty  pink  nails  into 
superimmaculateness  by  means  of  a  nail  file,  some  OOO 
emery  paper  stolen  from  her  brother  Gilbert's  workroom, 
and  a  natural  emollient  applied  by  the  tongue,  and  rubbed 
up  with  a  handkerchief,  which  she  had  abstracted  for  the 
purpose  from  her  sister  Marthe's  pocket  as  she  passed,  ab- 
sorbed in  her  "  cutting  out." 

The  morning  room  at  Balmaghie — that  eligible  sub- 
urban residence  can  now  do  without  its  indicative  turned 
commas,  which  have  served  their  purpose — was  a  pleasant 
room  looking  over  at  the  spires  of  the  churches,  and  the 
green  and  purple  slate  roofs  of  the  houses  of  Kirkmessan. 

In  the  intervals  of  prettily  but  most  improperly  biting 
and  polishing  her  nails,  Baby  Lant  counted  the  steeples. 
She  was  not  strong  in  arithmetic,  and  often  was  not  sure 
whether  there  were  five  or  six.  But  she  always  knew 
that  which  belonged  to  the  Free  Martyrs'  Kirk,  being  that 
presently  ministered  to  by  the  Rev.  William  Heath  Sym- 
ington, the  effective  cause  of  the  recent  lecture  delivered  to 
such  heedless  listeners  in  the  schoolroom  of  Balmaghie. 

Baby  Lant  was  not  in  love — not  the  least  in  the  world. 
She  had  never  been  in  love.  But  she  knew  it  would  come — 
at  least,  that  she  would  have  the  "  horrid  fag,"  as  Pat  called 
it,  of  having  people  in  love  with  you!     This  was  all  very 


PRINCIPALLY    PAT 

well  for  Patricia,  who  was  always  ready  to  snap  anybody's 
head  off.  But  for  herself,  that  is,  Baby  Lant — with  two  big 
blue  eyes  abrim  with  dreams,  she  took  great  interest  in  the 
thought  that  she  would  have  people  in  love  with  her. 

For  the  present,  however,  Patricia  being  publicly  disdain- 
ful, and  no  man  having  appeared  on  the  horizon  with  the 
necessary  courage  to  attack  her,  Baby  Lant  watched  over 
her  eldest  sister  like  a  mother,  and  invented  romances  in  that 
curly  head  of  hers  about  Marthe,  Mr.  Symington,  the  little 
ivy-covered  manse  on  the  Messan  Brae,  with  all  the  devo- 
tion of  a  trained  yarn  spinner  who  lets  his  puppets  trot 
round  his  head  while  he  himself  lies  ad  reaming. 

Hark  to  these  three  !  It  is  a  pleasant  sort  of  eaves- 
dropping: 

"  Say,  Marthe,"  said  Patricia,  with  a  malicious  twinkle 
and  a  pretty  birdlike  turn  of  the  head  characteristic  of  her, 
"  when  he  comes  past  the  gate  now,  especially  if  he  chances 
to  look  up,  we  most  all  fall  flat  on  our  faces,  mustn't  we, 
or  better  still,  turn  and  run  for  the  house  as  hard  as  we 
can?" 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  be  so  silly !  "  said  her  sister,  with 
as  much  dignity  as  can  go  along  with  four  pins  and  a  basting 
needle  all  in  one's  mouth  at  a  time. 

"  Silly!  "  cried  Patricia  mockingly,  "  never  in  the  world! 
Wisdom  itself  is  centered  in  me,  sister  mine.  And  that  you 
will  see — before  you  dig  your  first  crop  of  potatoes  out  of 
the  manse  garden !     I  recommend  '  Early  Roses  ' !  " 

"  I  can't  think  how  you  can  be  so  cruel !  "  said  Marthe ; 
"you  know  you  spoil  everything  when  you  talk  like  that!  " 

"What  is  'everything'?"  demanded  Patricia,  imme- 
diately pouncing  upon  this  as  an  admission. 

"  Oh,  you  know,"  said  Marthe,  keeping  her  eyes  very 
firmly  on  her  work;  "  you  know  as  well  as  I  do — about  Mr. 
3  25 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

Symington,  and  all  that  nonsense,  and  father's  not  wanting 
me  encourage  him.     As  if  I  would  encourage  anyone!" 

"  I  should!  "  said  Baby  Lant,  sucking  her  thumb  as  if  it 
were  made  of  chocolate,  "just  to  see  what  he  would  do!  " 

"That  would  be  cruel  and  very  wicked  also!"  said 
Marthe  sententiously,  "  as  you  will  know  when  you  grow 
up,  Baby  Lant !  " 

"  You  hear,  Baby  Lant,"  smiled  Patricia,  "  when  you 
grow  up.  Marthe  scores  one!  Put  away  childish  things — 
feeding  bottles  and  suchlike,  Baby  Lant!  " 

"  Well,  anyway,"  cried  Baby  Lant,  making  an  end  of 
her  nails  for  the  present  and  actually  troubling  to  raise  her- 
self on  one  elbow,  "  I  am  kinder  than  you,  Pat,  if  I  atn 
only  going  eighteen  and  not  yet  grown  up!  At  least  I  am 
willing  to  help  Marthe,  and  not  just  laugh  and  hinder!  So 
there!" 

"  Now  that's  what  Baby  Lant  (eighteen  and  not  grown 
up)  considers  sensible.  Yet  there  are  people  who  would  give 
girls  a  vote!"  said  Patricia  languidly.  "Why,  Baby,  I 
would  do  more  to  help  in  half  an  hour — could  and  would 
both — if  I  thought  that  father  was  in  earnest  with  his  silly 
talk,  or  Marthe  there  cared  a  button-without-the-stalk  for 
Mr.  Symington,  than  you  in  a  lifetime.  You  are  a  cozy, 
comfortable  person  enough,  Baby,  and  will  be  pleasant  to 
live  with.  But  they  don't  make  a  pretty  sofa  cushion  gar- 
nished with  eyes  behind  and  before,  like  the  beasts  in  the 
Bible!" 

Baby  Lant  sulked  a  little,  but  only  answered,  "  Well, 
you  take  a  strange  way  to  show  your  kindness  to  Marthe, 
always  mocking  at  her.  You're  worse  than  the  horridest 
girl  at  school !  " 

11  Then  you've  had  a  happy  school  life,  Baby,"  said 
Patricia,   turning  the  leaves  of  her  book  abstractedly,   and 

26 


PRINCIPALLY    PAT 

then  patting  her  mouth  to  emphasize  a  yawn.  "  When  the 
time  comes,  dear  Babe,  we  three  will  hang  together 
like  crabs  in  a  basket.  But  in  the  meantime,  while  Marthe 
doesn't  know  whether  she  likes  him  or  not,  and  he  hasn't 
made  up  his  mind  whether  he  likes  her " 

"  Why,  of  course  he  does,"  cried  Atalanta,  with  a  sudden 
burst  of  indignation;  "anybody  could  tell  that!  You 
should  have  heard  him  at  our  old  Cook  Marion's  wedding — 
why,  when  Mr.  Symington  read  out  all  that  about  the 
happiness  of  the  married  state,  and  the  crown  of  happy, 
peaceful  years,  he  was  thinking  all  the  time  about  our 
Marthe!  I  could  tell  by  his  voice.  Besides,  he  kept  looking 
over  where  she  was !  " 

"  It  was  at  me  he  looked,  Baby  Lant,"  said  Patricia,  in 
a  matter-of-fact  tone;  "  I  had  the  ring,  you  know.  He  told 
me  to  have  it  ready  on  my  little  finger,  as  Cook  Marion's 
husband  would  never  be  able  to  find  it  at  the  proper  moment. 
It  was  a  secret  between  us.  Besides,  I'm  not  sure  but  that 
he  likes  me  best,  anyway!  " 

Baby  Lant  was  on  her  feet  in  a  flash,  white  hot  with 
indignation. 

"Oh,  you  story!"  she  cried,  "how  can  you,  Patricia 
McGhie?  If  you  were  to  be  taken  this  moment,  what 
would  you  say?  " 

"Say?"  murmured  Patricia,  without  troubling  to  turn 
her  head ;  "  I  should  say,  '  Good-by,  proud  world,  I'm  going 
home.'  " 

"  I'm  not  thy  friend  and  thou'rt  not  mine!  " 

"  Don't  be  wicked,  Pat,"  said  Marthe,  stirred  for  the 
first  time  at  the  abuse  of  sacred-sounding  words. 

Patricia  waved  a  slender  white  hand  in  a  tired  way  over 
her  two  sisters  and  rearranged  herself  on  her  chair  backs. 
'  There  you  go,"  she  said,  "  all  you  good  folk  are  alike — 
27 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

you  never  take  the  trouble  to  think.  The  man  who  wrote 
that  (Emerson,  his  name  was)  only  meant  that  he  was 
tired  of  living  in  the  city  and  that  he  was  going  back  to  the 
country." 

"Well,  it  doesn't  sound  like  that!"  said  Marthe  and 
Atalanta  together,  a  little  taken  aback,  however. 

"  Ah,  yes,  you  go  by  sound,  you  people,"  said  Patricia  in- 
dulgently ;  "  pray  by  sound ;  sing  by  sound  in  church  the 
same  words  you  sang  as  a  child,  and  you  like  them  because  of 
that.  But  the  meaning — that's  quite  another  thing.  But 
what  am  I  saying?  Girls  should  not  presume  to  think. 
They  should  listen  with  folded  hands  to  their  parents  and 
guardians  till  they  get  married.  And  after  that — why,  have 
they  not  husbands  to  think  for  them?  " 

Marthe  did  not  answer  this.  She  knew  better.  She 
only  came  across  and  laid  her  cool  brown  cheek  against 
Patricia's.     Then  she  kissed  her  softly. 

"Dear  old  Marthe!"  said  Patricia,  suddenly  reaching 
up  a  hand  and  catching  her  sister  round  the  back  of  her 
neck,  "  I  am  a  wretch.  You  are  a  hundred  times  better 
than  I,  and  far  too  good  for  anybody  in  this  wicked  world — 
even  (she  added  maliciously)  for  Willie!" 

And  before  her  sister  could  recover,  she  alighted  from 
her  chair  backs  as  easily  and  as  daintily  as  a  bird  descends 
from  a  perch. 

"Here  endeth  the  first  lesson!"  she  said,  and  marched 
out  of  the  parlor  with  a  mischievous  assumption  of  ecclesi- 
astical port,  holding  up  her  dress  like  a  Geneva  gown. 


28 


CHAPTER   III 

MORE   PAT 

HE  rear  portions  of  Back  Mill  Lands  looked 
toward  the  red  freestone  walls,  the  many 
windows,  and  glittering  conservatories  of 
'Balmaghie.  And  that,  for  many  years,  was 
all  the  connection  that  had  existed  between 
the  elder  and  the  younger  branches  of  the  clan  McGhie. 
But  it  was  left  to  the  Kid — otherwise  Alexander  Mc- 
Ghie, son  of  David — to  make  the  first  real  friendly  ad- 
vances. He  made  them  by  falling  across  the  path  between 
the  little  shrubbery  and  the  house,  with  an  ugly  wound  on 
his  head.  He  lay  there,  still  as  the  dead,  till  Patricia  came 
along.  The  young  lady  was  whistling  "  Ye  Banks  an'  Braes 
o'  Bonnie  Doon,"  and  inquiring  with  the  born  whistler's 
exaggeration  of  feeling  why  they  bloomed  so  fresh  and  fair, 
when  her  eye  caught  the  sordid  heap  of  rags  and  tatters 
lying  face  down  on  the  clean  white  gravel  of  the  walk, 
where  the  Kid  had  fallen  in  his  wild  flight  from  Mad  Mag. 
In  general  Patricia  knew  no  particular  reason  why 
she  should  be  afraid  of  anything.  And  indeed  she  wasn't — 
except  perhaps  of  a  few  of  the  larger  carnivora,  like  mice 
and  tigers.  So  she  turned  over  the  Kid,  started  a  little  at 
the  drawn  white  face  streaked  with  blood,  and  at  last  found 
the  dreadful  matted  place,  dark  with  clotted  crimson,  which 

29 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

Mad  Mag  had  made  with  a  single  application  of  Tom  Din- 
widdie's  "  spanner." 

Patricia  was  practical — also,  considering  her  slim  figure, 
strong.  The  firm  pressure  of  lip  on  lip  and  the  look  of  the 
dark  aquamarine  eyes,  which  could  flash  out  straight  as  a 
thrust  at  the  rapier  play  when  she  would,  in  spite  of  the 
languid  amusement  in  them  at  most  times,  told  of  latent  de- 
termination. 

Generally  she  left  action  to  others,  but  sometimes,  when 
there  was  no  one  to  tease  or  to  do  her  will,  she  acted  like 
a  leader  of  armies.  So  now  Pat  McGhie  glanced  just  twice 
about  her,  once  to  either  side.  She  did  not  need  to  look 
behind.  She  had  just  come  that  way.  Then  turning  up  her 
skirt,  so  as  not  to  soil  her  dress,  she  lifted  the  Kid  in  her 
arms,  and  conveyed  him  to  the  little  summer  pavilion,  called 
the  garden  house,  where  the  girls  often  sat  and  talked  over 
their  work  or  pretended  to  read  on  summer  mornings. 

Indeed  Marthe's  "  housewife  "  was  lying  there  at  the 
moment  when  Patricia  laid  her  burden  down  on  the  bench. 
She  pushed  a  hassock  beneath  the  Kid's  head,  and  ran  to  the 
back  door  for  a  basin  and  a  sponge.  But  she  did  not  con- 
fide in  Mistress  Carter,  the  fat  cook,  nor  yet  in  Teena,  the 
second  housemaid,  who  ran  at  the  word  to  get  Miss  Patricia 
what  she  wanted. 

She  was  back  again  in  a  moment  without  anyone  having 
followed  her.  She  wished  for  Marthe.  But  Marthe  had 
gone  to  town  to  do  her  district  visiting.  A  small  stranger  had 
arrived  from  a  far  country,  somewhat  unexpectedly,  to  the 
address  of  Mrs.  "Coaly"  Sogie,  the  sweep's  improvident 
wife,  and  Marthe  was  taking  the  newcomer  some  of  the 
comforts  of  home  in  the  shape  of  bed  wrappings  and  body 
linen.  His  departure  had  been  so  sudden  that  he  had  not 
had  time,  apparently,  to  pack  his  trunk.     At  least,  if  report 

80 


MORE    PAT 

were  to  be  credited,  he  had  arrived  in  Jock's  Row,  Kirk- 
messan,  with  practically  nothing  upon  him  at  all.  Marthe 
could  not  endure  cases  of  destitution,  and  as  Mrs.  "  Coaly  " 
Sweep  was  a  most  shiftless  person,  in  whom  she  had  no  man- 
ner of  confidence,  Marthe,  neat  and  practical  from  head 
to  foot,  felt  a  responsibility  fall  upon  her,  to  see  that  the 
youthful  stranger  should  not  suffer  for  his  overconfidence. 

Her  sister  Patricia,  therefore,  panting  over  the  Kid  in 
the  garden  house  on  the  hill,  knew  that  what  she  had  to 
do,  she  must  do  quickly  and  alone.  To  call  Baby  Lant 
never  so  much  as  crossed  her  mind,  though  she  was  within 
hail.  She  would  only  shriek  and  faint  at  the  sight  of  blood. 
Then  she,  Patricia,  would  have  two  of  them  on  her  hands. 
No,  thank  you ! 

Wherein,  as  many  sisters  do,  she  wronged  Baby  Lant. 
Her  time  had  not  come,  that  was  all.  After  a  while  she 
wore  the  cap  and  wristbands  of  the  trained  nurse  with  as 
much  aplomb  as  any  of  them. 

Clip-clip  went  the  scissors  out  of  Marthe's  big,  figured 
brocade  bag.  They  were  cutting  away  the  Kid's  matted 
hair.  Then  followed  a  pause.  The  Kid  moaned  as  the 
sponge  passed  lightly  over  the  bared  place.  It  was  terrible 
to  see,  but  Pat  McGhie  had  doctored  dogs  before.  There 
was,  for  instance,  her  own  fox  terrier,  when  it  was  run  over 
by  a  road  engine,  and  not  expected  to  live.  The  gamekeeper 
had  suggested  putting  a  shot  through  it,  but  Patricia  had 
brought  it  round,  and  Vixen  now  ran  about  as  impudently 
as  ever  on  three  good  legs,  and  sometimes  forgot  at  which 
corner  the  lame  one  was — a  triumph  for  the  lady  surgeon, 
her  mistress. 

There  was  no  awkwardness  or  hesitation  in  the  hand 
that  laid  bare  and  dressed  the  Kid's  wound  in  the  garden 
house,  yet  all  the  time  Patricia  was  perplexed  in  mind. 

31 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

"  What  shall  I  do  with  him  after?  "  she  was  asking 
herself.  And  so  far  she  found  no  answer.  If  her  father 
knew,  he  would  order  George,  the  coachman,  to  take  the 
Kid  to  the  combination  poorhouse,  which  was  his  panacea 
for  all  problems  of  the  poor  whenever  they  touched  him 
nearly.  He  paid  his  rates?  Indisputable!  Very  well 
then,  he  paid  the  local  authority  to  look  after  such  cases. 
Why  then  should  he  do  it  himself?  It  was  merely  paying 
twice  for  the  same  article.  And  he,  P.  Brydson  McGhie,  of 
Balmaghie,  prided  himself  on  never  paying  his  just  debts 
more  than  once.  He  kept  the  receipts  for  three  years.  This 
logic  was  unanswerable. 

Patricia  did  not  try  to  answer  it.  She  simply  counted 
her  father  in  among  the  strong  stupid  things,  such  as  fate, 
the  government,  the  confession  of  faith,  a  cow,  and  the 
smallpox,  which  were  not  meant  to  be  argued  with,  but 
simply  evaded  at  any  cost. 

Now  it  was  nowise  difficult  for  Patricia  to  evade  her 
father.  He  always  moved  to  the  sound  of  a  trumpet,  as 
she  herself  observed. 

But  the  little  garden  house  had  been  constructed  origi- 
nally of  two  parts,  an  inner,  small  and  dark,  where  many 
diseased  and  surgically  imperfect  toys  had  been  stowed 
away,  some  dating  from  the  time  of  Baby  Lant — dolls,  tail- 
less monkeys,  and  cooking  batteries — others,  and  these  the 
more  numerous,  belonging  to  the  boys,  to  Gilbert,  Rob, 
Tom.  These,  for  the  most  part,  were  hopelessly  broken 
bats,  half-finished  models  of  ships,  burst  footballs — all  stored 
on  the  well-known  principle  that  if  you  keep  a  thing  for 
seven  years  some  one  will  find  a  use  for  it. 

Pat  McGhie  had  all  these  things  out  at  the  door  in  ten 
minutes,  while  her  patient  was  coming  to.  Then  she  an- 
nexed   Housemaid    Teena's    leaves    (tea),    scattered    them 

32 


MORE    PAT 

over  the  floor,  swept  them  out  carefully,  tucked  her  skirt 
up  to  her  waist,  and  before  you  could  say  Jack  Robinson  (if 
so  you  wished  to  do)  Pat  was  on  her  knees  scrubbing  out  the 
little  dark  apartment  in  the  rear  of  the  garden  house. 
It  had  a  dim  skylight  in  its  pent-house  roof  which  Patricia 
cleaned  and  set  wide  to  let  in  the  air.  Then — oh,  hap- 
piness! she  heard  the  sound  of  Marthe's  blessed  feet, 
pit-patting  on  the  gravel  walk.  Pat  was  sure  she  would 
never  make  fun  of  Marthe  any  more — never — never! 
Good  Marthe! 

She  ran  out  and  intercepted  her  sister  on  the  plain 
white  glare  of  the  avenue,  swept  that  very  morning  clear  of 
leaves  and  rubbish.  Marthe,  smart  and  dimpling  as  usual, 
brown  hatted,  brown  gloved,  brown  gowned  (tailor  made), 
brown  booted — a  daintier  person  not  to  be  met  with 
within  a  radius  of  fifty  miles,  stared  at  her  sister  in  aston- 
ishment. 

"  Why,  Pat,"  she  cried,  "  what  have  you  been  doing 
with  yourself?  You  look  a  spectacle — a  pair  of  spectacles — 
a  whole  consignment  of  spectacles!  What  would  Mr. 
Syming " 

"  Tut,"  cried  Patricia,  catching  her  sister  about  the 
waist,  and  rushing  her  toward  the  shrubbery,  "  come  here. 
Never  mind  what  anyone  would  say.  I  am  a  sight,  I  know, 
but  I  want  you !  " 

"  At  least  put  down  your  skirt,  Patricia  McGhie,"  cried 
her  sister,  for  once  submitting  to  be  dragged  aside  from  the 
straight  path;  "  it's  not  decent  to  run  about  like  a  child  of 
ten  !     I  shouldn't  allow  Baby  Lant " 

"You'll  see!  You'll  see!"  panted  Patricia.  "Oh, 
Marthe,  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come.    You  will  help " 

"  Help?  "  said  her  sister,  "  help  who — what?  Have  you 
gone  crazy,  girl?  " 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

"  With  bedding  him  down,"  cried  Pat,  hastening  their 
march  by  running  on  in  front;  "quick — he  may  die." 

And  in  this  fashion  Marthe  McGhie,  eldest  of  the  race 
of  Patrick  Brydson  McGhie,  was  for  the  first  time  intro- 
duced to  her  distant  cousin,  the  Kid,  undoubted  head  of 
her  feudal  house. 

She  looked  at  him  a  moment  as  he  lay  extended,  his  cheek 
on  his  bent  arm.  Marthe  examined  her  sister's  hasty  dress- 
ing with  a  professional  eye. 

"  Yes — all  right — "  she  said,  "  not  so  bad,  Pat.  Where 
did  you »learn  that?" 

"It  was  only  from  doing  Vixen  when  she  got  run 
over!  "  said  Patricia  modestly,  as  she  put  a  cup  of  water  to 
the  patient's  lips.  The  patient  thrust  it  away,  with  a  mut- 
tered word  which  startled  his  two  nurses.  They  looked 
at  each  other,  awed. 

"  Poor  boy,"  said  Patricia,  "  he  does  not  know  what 
he  is  saying." 

But  still,  after  that  the  girls  had  a  clearer  sense  of  what 
they  were  attempting,  and  their  courage  rose  with  the  diffi- 
culty. 

"  Very  likely  he  has  never  heard  anything  else  where  he 
comes  from!  "  said  Marthe. 

"  Is  he — does  he  remind  you  of  anybody?  "  said  Patricia, 
"  anybody  you  know  very  well  ?  " 

Marthe  studied  the  small  distinct  features  of  the  boy 
as  he  lay  muttering  on  the  bench  of  the  garden  house. 

Suddenly  she  clapped  her  hands,  still  daintily  gloved. 
"  I  declare,"  she  cried,  "  he  is  like  Brother  Bob  when  he  is 
asleep!  " 

Patricia  nodded  and  bent  an  attentive  ear. 

"  Listen,"  she  said,  "  he  is  saying  something." 

Both  girls  listened  intently  to  the  faint  telephonic  tones. 


MORE    FAT 

"I'm  wee  Kid  McGhie — I'm  wee  Kid  McGhie  (the 
impersonal  voice  said), 

"  My  faither  killed  himsel' 
An'  my  mither  killed  me!" 

Over  and  over  he  said  it,  like  the  burden  of  a  song.  The 
stroke  of  Tom  Dinwiddie's  spanner  had  somehow  struck  out 
in  that  small  brain  the  faint  semblance  of  a  rhyme. 

"I'm  wee  Kid  McGhie — I'm  wee  Kid  McGhie  ! 

My  faither  killed  himsel' 
An'  my  mither  killed  me!" 

"  He  is  mentioning  our  name — perhaps  he  knows  where 
he  is,"  said  Patricia. 

But  Marthe,  more  skilled  in  the  ill-doing  families  of 
Kirkmessan,  and  the  scandal  of  Back  Mill  Lands,  shook  her 
head. 

"  He  will  be  Mad  Mag's  boy,  the  son  of  David  Mc- 
Ghie.    She  is  a  terrible  woman." 

Then  a  sudden  resolution  took  her. 

"  Stay  here,  Pat,"  she  said.  "  Wait  till  I  can  fall  into 
my  working  things.  We  must  get  the  key  of  the  old  box- 
room  and  stow  away  all  this  rubbish.  It  won't  do  to  de- 
stroy it,  or  there  will  be  questions  asked.  Then  we  must 
speak  to  King,  or  he  and  the  boy  will  come  poking  round !  " 

King  was  gardener,  trusted  and  faithful,  to  P.  Brydson 
McGhie,  Esq.,  J.  P.  But  as  a  matter  of  private  enterprise, 
he  did  what  the  young  misses  told  him,  and  was  none  the 
poorer  thereby. 

So  leaving  Patricia  on  guard,  Marthe  departed.  She 
was  always  a  kind   of  household   providence.     And   so  it 

35 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

created  no  surprise  when  with  the  assistance  of  Boy  King  she 
was  seen  hauling  about  the  mattress  of  one  of  her  brothers' 
discarded  beds  for  purposes  unknown.  Had  Pat  been  ob- 
served thus  employed,  or  Baby  Lant,  every  woman  in  the 
place  would  have  become  a  trained  detective  on  the  spot. 

But  Marthe  was  different.  She  was  always  "  convey- 
ing "  something  out  of  the  house,  generally  by  hidden  ways, 
for  the  benefit  of  her  poor — or  Mr.  Symington's  poor,  which 
was  the  same  thing. 

So  her  operations  excited  no  surprise,  as  she  went  about, 
squaring  King,  engaging  Boy  King  to  labor  at  the  oar, 
carry  messages,  tend  the  sick,  stay  awake  at  nights,  go  for  the 
doctor  (a  young,  unmarried  doctor,  with  feelings  easily  ac- 
cessible), and  generally  to  act  the  elfin  messenger  who 

"When  he  cam  to  wan  water, 
He  doffed  his  cap  and  swam; 
And  when  he  cam  to  broken  brig, 
He  bent  his  bow  and  sprang." 

Boy  King  knew  McGhie's  Kid.  He  had  often  stoned 
him,  in  fact,  and  now  did  not  quite  see  what  all  the  fuss 
was  about.  Still,  there  was  his  father  to  reckon  with,  and 
"  the  young  leddies  "  were  not  ungenerous.  So  Boy  King, 
being  promised  a  new  catapult,  was  silent  as  the  grave. 

It  could  not  be  said  that  at  first  the  Kid  was  effusive 
in  his  gratitude  toward  his  preservers.  Indeed  it  was  with 
the  greatest  difficulty  that  he  could  be  kept  on  his  shakedown, 
scientifically  arranged  by  Dr.  Albert  Edward  Dalrymple, 
M.K.,  CM.,  who  showed  himself  remarkably  anxious  to 
share  a  watch  with  Miss  Patricia,  so  that  he  might  take 
counsel  with  her  concerning  the  treatment  to  be  pursued. 

36 


MORE    PAT 

Indeed,  Dr.  Dalrymple  incurred  some  very  unjust  sus- 
picions which  he  bore  with  manly  fortitude.  For  Mr.  P. 
Brydson  McGhie  met  him  in  the  avenue  one  day,  and  after 
regarding  him  with  extreme  surprise  over  the  bulge  of  his 
white  waistcoat,  asked  him  plump  and  plain  what  he  came 
there  for. 

Fortunately,  Dalrymple,  with  wits  sharpened  by  contact 
with  Patricia  (even  though  he  had  not  had  as  much  of  that 
as  he  could  have  desired),  remembered  that  Gardener  King 
had  mentioned  to  him  that  he  was  suffering  from  rheumatism 
in  his  feet.  So  on  the  spot  he  extemporized  a  going  con- 
cern in  the  way  of  treatment.  He  resolved  to  inject  cocaine 
on  both  sides  of  the  joint.  He  thought  up  what  he  knew 
about  Pott's  fracture,  from  which  King  had  once  suffered, 
and,  without  actual  pause,  answered  the  proprietor  of  the 
policies  of  Balmaghie,  that  he  was  in  attendance  on  his 
Gardener  King  for  rheumatism  of  the  ankles,  aggravated  by 
former  lesion,  resulting  from  fracture  of  the  smaller  bone 
and  dislocation  of  the  larger/)  ^^ 

"  Old  fool,  he's  malingering  again,"  retorted  Mr.  P. 
Brydson  McGhie  sympathetically.  "  Mind  you,  Dalrymple, 
you  can  doctor  him  all  you  want  to,  but  don't  look  to 
me  for  payment.  Patrick  McGhie  is  nothing  if  not  frank. 
He  says  what  he  means.  Nothing  like  having  a  clear  under- 
standing from  the  beginning!  " 

The  doctor  said  that  he  quite  agreed  with  Patrick  Mc- 
Ghie, and  that,  of  course,  King  and  he  would  settle  the 
matter  of  fees  between  them. 

"  Well,  you're  a  fool,  Dalrymple,"  said  the  white  waist- 
coat with  the  man  inside.  "  I  think  I  ought  to  know 
King.  You'll  never  see  a  penny  of  your  money.  You 
are  only  losing  your  time.  However,  you  can't  say  but 
what  I   have  warned  you.     I   am  not  the  sort  of  a  man 

37 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

to  let  another  man  make  a  fool  of  himself  without  telling 
him  so!  " 

And  this  feature  of  his  character  gained  for  P.  Brydson 
McGhie  more  enemies  than  all  his  other  peculiarities  put 
together.  People  don't  want  to  be  told  that  they  are  fools. 
They  may  know  it,  but  they  are  not  grateful  for  being  told 
that  other  people  see  it. 

Dr.  Dalrymple  went  on  into  the  garden,  and,  bidding  the 
astonished  King  take  off  his  boots  and  stockings  on  the 
spot,  informed  him  that  he  was  to  be  treated  for  rheumatism 
in  both  ankles! 

"  But  can't  we  just  say  it?  "  ejaculated  the  alarmed  man, 
tugging  at  his  boot  laces,  and  not  tranquilized  by  the  glint 
of  a  silver  wire  at  the  end  of  an  injection  syringe;  "that 
would  do  just  as  well." 

"  It  might  for  you,"  said  the  doctor  firmly,  "  but  it 
won't  for  me.  Hang  it,  what  a  fellow  has  to  say  and  do 
for  a  parcel  of  girls!  " 

And  he  hummed  to  himself  certain  lines — none  truer  in 
the  language — which  he  had  learned  in  his  remotest  child- 
hood : 

*«  Oh,  what  a  tangled  web  we  weave, 
When  first  we  practice  to  deceive  !  " 

While  he  was  inserting  the  needle  into  King's  ankle, 
who  purled  and  snorted  as  if  he  were  going  to  get  both  legs 
cut  off,  the  doctor  burst  out  suddenly  and  without  apparent 
connection,  "Oh,  ccwfound  all  girls!" 

This  cured  King  for  the  moment,  who  felt  a  sudden  ac- 
cess of  esprit  de  corps. 

"  If  ye  are  meanin'  our  young  leddies,"  he  said,  "  I  will 
thank  you  to  take  back  thae  words !  " 

"  With  pleasure,"  said  Dr.  Dalrymple,  sending  the 
38 


MORE    PAT 

needle  more  viciously  into  a  new  spot ;  "  please  keep  still, 
King.     Wriggling  like  that  is  very  bad  for  the  treatment." 

When  the  Kid  came  to  himself  in  the  little  cubby-hole 
at  the  back  of  the  garden  house,  in  that  retired  spot  on  the 
limited  policies  of  Balmaghie,  he  was  far  from  happy.  Yet 
he  ought  to  have  been.  All  rules  and  standards  pointed  this 
out  to  him.  He  had  everything  he  could  wish  for — better 
bedding  than  he  had  ever  lain  upon,  the  two  prettiest  girls 
in  Kirkmessan  to  wait  on  him  hand  and  foot — at  least  two 
of  the  three  prettiest.  Boy  King  was  there  to  do  the  coarser 
tendings.  He  had  good  food,  nourishing  soups,  the  doctor 
to  talk  with  him  and  get  his  head  into  shape  again.  Happy — 
he  ought  to  have  been  in  the  seventh  heaven!  Only  he 
wasn't.  The  Kid  wanted  to  see  what  had  become  of  his 
mother.     He  wanted  to  go  to  her! 

Mysterious  ties  and  promptings  of  blood — faint,  rest- 
less quiverings  of  something  within  him  which  might  have 
been  conscience,  and  might  have  been  only  a  kind  of  Mar- 
coni code  pulsing  in  some  secret  receiver  where  was  con- 
cealed the  Kid's  rudimentary  soul — these  bade  him  go  and 
seek  his  mother. 

Mad  Mag  McGhie!  She  had  stricken  him  almost  to 
death  in  blind  fury.  Yes,  that  was  right.  The  doctor  man 
meant  kindly  in  offering  him  a  chance  as  "  buttons."  Marthe 
hinted  at  an  additional  gardener  boy  required  by  King. 
They  were  all  very  kind.  But  his  mother — she  might  kill 
him,  but — she  was  his  mother.  And  she  had  no  one  now. 
He  was  her  Kid,  now  that  his  father  was  gone. 

This  being  so,  it  was  no  great  wonder  that  one  morning 
King's  Boy  came  into  the  girls'  sitting  room  and  signaled 
mysteriously  to  Marthe  and  Pat.  Baby  Lant  thought  it 
had   something  to  do  with   planting  strawberry  shoots  or 

39 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

the  grafting  of  roses.  Marthe  and  Pat  were  so  funny,  when 
they  might  lie  still  and  let  their  hair  grow.  Always  rushing 
about,  so  silly!  And  now  Pat  was  getting  worse  than 
Marthe.  Well,  they  couldn't  both  have  him.  "  Him " 
meant  a  quite  innocent  man,  the  Rev.  William  Heath 
Symington,  of  the  Free  Martyrs'  Church  in  Kirkmessan. 

"He's  gane,  the  bird's  flown!"  whispered  Boy  King, 
when  the  girls  came  and  stood  out  of  hearing  of  the  house 
at  the  edge  of  the  shrubbery.  "The  bed's  cauld!  He 
maun  hae  run  awa'  yestreen !  " 

Inspection  confirmed  this.  The  Kid  was  certainly  gone. 
And  everybody,  with  one  exception,  exclaimed  at  the  boy's 
rank  ingratitude.  But  what  could  you  expect?  That  class 
of  boy  is  always  restless,  thankless,  untrustworthy. 

The  exception  was  not  Marthe,  as  one  would  have  ex- 
pected, but  Patricia.  Faint  and  far  away  some  community 
of  blood  stirred  in  her.  Perhaps  she,  too,  was  a  kid  of  the 
goats.  She  felt  that  the  boy  had  gone  to  his  own.  And 
so — whatever  might  come  of  it,  whatever  of  steady  work 
and  respectable  position  he  had  cast  behind  him,  there 
was  a  certain  elemental  rightness  in  the  thing  he  had  done. 

But  this  Patricia  kept  to  herself.  She  handed  over  the 
bedding  used  by  McGhie's  Kid  to  those  who  buy  and  sell 
asking  no  price,  but  only  the  promptest  removal.  With  a 
sigh  she  put  back  the  debris  of  dolls  and  cricket  bats  and 
damaged  ironclads  till  the  black  hole  of  the  garden  house 
became  again  what  it  had  been,  and  the  door  was  shut. 

The  Kid  faded  from  the  memory  of  all  but  Patricia,  who 
had  found  him,  and  King's  Boy,  who  had  been  done  out  of 
a  big  fight  he  had  planned  behind  the  harness  room.  These 
two  mourned  in  secret  for  Kid  McGhie,  and  were  not  com- 
forted. 


40 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE    "  KNIFER  " 

AGMAN'S  Close,  North  Pleasance,  in  the 
city  of  Edinburgh,  occupied  one  of  the  old- 
est and  most  unreformed  situations  of  that 
still  ancient  and  unreformed  town.  It  was 
called  by  its  present  highly  honorable  name 
owing  to  the  fact  that  formerly  it  had  contained  the  official 
residence  of  the  city  headsman,  the  blade  and  "  hag  clog  " 
of  whose  profession  were  still  to  be  traced  over  the  low  door 
of  the  tall,  old,  grimy  "  land." 

There  are  few  "  lands  "  like  that  in  Edinburgh  now — 
that  is,  of  the  older  sort.  Thirty  years  ago,  however,  they 
were  the  rule.  And,  as  the  number  of  those  who  know 
what  an  actual  old-time  "  land  "  was,  is  growing  steadily 
fewer,  I  will  try  to  sketch  this  towering  rabbit  warren  in 
a  few  sentences. 

A  clifflike  face  of  grimy  gray  stone,  broken  by  rows 
upon  rows  of  small  windows  with  small  panes,  many  of  them 
broken,  stuffed  with  rags,  and  mended  with  paper.  Seven 
and  eight  stories  the  rule,  ten  and  eleven  the  exception. 
Four  families,  sometimes  eight,  on  each  landing.  These 
landings  lit  by  day  through  one  narrow  arrow  slit  in  the 
tower  of  the  turnpike  stair — by  night  not  lit  at  all.  Thirty 
to  sixty  families  in  all,  exclusive  of  lodgers  and  casuals, 
4  41 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

lived  in  that  grimy  barrack,  all  going  to  and  fro  upon  their 
occasions  up  and  down  that  winding  staircase,  indescribable 
in  its  filth.  A  faint,  keen  odor  of  packed  humanity  grew 
more  and  more  insupportable  as  you  mounted  higher,  which 
you  did,  holding  on  to  a  greasy  rope  stanchioned  to  the 
wall.  Children  swarmed  underfoot  at  all  stages  of  the 
ascent,  and  it  was  a  constant  miracle  how  more  of  them 
did  not  tumble  over,  and  so  achieve  (what  was  the  best 
thing  for  them)    Nirvana  at  the  earliest  age  possible. 

Some  did,  and  lived  happy  ever  after.  The  others  sur- 
vived and  were  both  sorry  for  it  themselves  and  made  others 
sorry  also. 

Such  was  a  "  land  " — the  outside  of  it,  that  is,  before 
you  entered  the  separate  dwellings  of  which  this  vast  human 
warren  was  composed. 

It  was  a  curious  life  for  a  country-bred  boy.  The 
Kid's  mother,  erstwhile  Mag  McGhie,  had  on  her  arrival 
in  town,  promptly  remarried  with  a  certain  "  Knifer " 
Jackson,  who  when  required,  for  purposes  of  law  and 
order,  to  specify  his  profession,  said  vaguely,  that  he  was 
"  employed  upon  the  streets." 

"  Knifer "  was  not  tall,  but  very  broad.  His  arms 
swung  to  his  knees,  the  elbows  out  a  little  like  an  ape's  try- 
ing to  walk  erect.  The  most  prominent  part  of  his  face 
was  bis  chin,  and  an  upper  lip  which  stuck  out  like  the 
ram  of  an  ironclad.  There  was  at  most  times  a  kind  of 
doubtful  smile  on  Knifer's  face,  and  "  Don't  pervoke  me  " 
was  his  word — "  I  know  my  weakness.  Don't  pervoke 
me!" 

And  as  Knifer's  best-known  weakness  was  homicide — 
and  homicide,  too,  with  but  a  faint  dividing  line  between 
it  and  murder — few  people  did  care  to  provoke  Knifer 
Jackson.     Most  certainly,  however,  he  had  worked  a  strange 

42 


THE    "KNIFER" 

reformation  in  Mad  Mag,  his  new  wife,  before  she  had  kept 
house  a  month  in  Hagman's  Close.  It  was  whispered  in 
Number  Seven  Land  that  Mag  had  once  seen  the  Knifer 
in  wrath.     The  other  man  died. 

And  from  this  and  a  few  other  circumstances  had  grown 
her  respect  for  her  husband.  At  any  rate,  the  respect  was 
there,  as  well  as  a  curious  desire  to  please  her  master.  And 
as  Mad  Mag  was  well-looking  in  a  bold,  gusty  way,  though 
burnt  so  brown  that  her  china-blue  eyes  made  holes  in  her 
face,  Knifer  Jackson  rather  liked  to  be  seen  out  of  doors 
with  his  wife  on  Sunday  afternoons.  They  went  down  the 
length  of  the  pleasance,  disappeared  into  a  close,  came  out 
among  the  respectable  houses  in  Arthur  Street,  and  so  down 
hill  into  the  Queen's  Park.  There,  as  was  customary,  they 
went  arm  in  arm. 

It  was  on  such  an  excursion,  up  among  the  gorse  of  the 
Whinny  Hill,  that  Knifer  earned  his  wife's  admiration.  It 
was  soon  after  they  were  married,  and  Mag,  having  let 
down  her  hair  so  that  the  wind  could  blow  through  it, 
was  wondering  in  her  heart  if  she  could  wind  this  man 
round  her  finger  as  she  had  done  Davie  McGhie.  They 
were  both  silent  as  the  Sunday  afternoon  itself.  Knifer 
lay  with  his  chin  on  his  hands,  thoughtfully  chewing  a  long 
grass.     What  he  was  thinking  of  may  appear  later. 

In  the  meantime  all  was  peace.  But  through  the  whins 
there  crept  upon  the  unsuspecting  pair  two  sons  of  per- 
dition, with  foul-mouthed  demands  for  money,  and  the 
information,  palpably  false,  that  they  were  private  de- 
tectives. 

"I'll  detect  you!"  cried  the  Knifer,  springing  to  his 
feet.  "  Go  home,  Mag,  by  St.  Leonard's  wee  yett  yonder,  as 
fast  as  ye  can.  Leave  me  to  settle  with  these  two  chaps. 
I've  heard  of  them  before!" 

43 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

The  two  "  private  detectives  "  showed  fight,  being  two 
to  one.  And  Mag,  fascinated,  watched  while  one  man  went 
down  like  a  hod  of  bricks,  a  broken  arm  doubled  stiffly  back 
beneath  him  in  an  impossible  position.  He  cried  and 
swore.  Meanwhile  Knifer  Jackson  pursued  his  companion, 
and  Mag,  running  from  knowe  to  knowe,  followed  the 
chase,  till,  with  a  great  gulp  at  the  throat,  she  saw  the  low 
sun  of  afternoon  striking  from  behind  the  black  humps 
of  Dalmahoy  shine  on  a  polished  blade  held  a  moment  high 
above  the  Knifer's  head. 

Then  she  ran  for  home,  terror  winging  her  feet  as 
she  went,  and  the  sober  Sabbath-walking  people  staring 
after  her. 

She  was  Sitting  on  a  chair,  wide  eyed,  panting,  open 
mouthed  with  fear,  when,  half  an  hour  later,  her  husband 
entered,  calm  as  ever. 

"What — what — what?"  she  cried,  all  with  the  in- 
drawing  of  a  single  breath. 

"  Gimme  a  bowl  o'  tea!  "  said  the  Knifer;  "  yon  was  a 
hot  burst,  Mag!  " 

"  Did  ye  kill  the  man  ?  "  she  gasped,  putting  both  hands 
out  to  keep  him  off. 

The  Knifer  smiled,  dropped  into  a  seat,  and  waved 
his  hand  toward  the  tea  caddy. 

"  Never  you  mind  aboot  thae  twa  blackguards,"  he 
said  not  unkindly,  all  his  anger  having  vanished  away  after 
the  wiping  of  his  knife;  "  put  on  the  scaud!  " 

"But  the  poliss — the  poliss?"  said  Mag,  "they  will 
tak'  you  away — ye  will  get  years  an'  years  for  it,  even 
if  they  dinna  hang  ye!  And  oh,  Jimmy,  but  I'm  fond  o' 
you!  Ye  are  sic  a  man!  It  was  fearsome  to  see  you 
angry!  " 

The  Knifer,  completely  appeased,  patted  Mag,  the  sub- 
44 


THE    "KNIFER" 

dued,  on  the  shoulder  and  bade  her  be  of  good  heart.  No 
policeman  would  meddle  him,  nor  any  lawful  magistrate  put 
him  to  the  question  for  what  he  had  done  that  day. 

"  Lass,"  he  said,  "  it  was  poliss  wark  I  was  doin' — wark 
that  they  canna  weel  do  for  themsel's.  Dod,"  he  exclaimed, 
laughing  heartily  at  the  recollection,  "  but  I  wish  I  had  had 
time  to  look  at  their  faces,  when  they  fand  that  it  was 
Knifer  Jackson  they  had  to  deal  wi' — Knifer  Jackson  an' 
his  blithe  wife  Mag,  sweetheartin'  on  the  Sabbath  after- 
noon amang  the  bonnie  green  busses  o'  the  Whunny 
Knowe!  " 

And,  truly  enough,  even  as  he  said,  no  summons  was 
taken  out.  The  police  of  the  city  made  no  sign.  Only  an 
inspector  or  two  "  well  in  the  know  "  nodded  in  a  friendly 
manner  to  Knifer,  and  once  in  a  row  into  which  Knifer 
Jackson  had  quite  casually  elbowed  his  way,  when  he 
had  been  swept  into  a  wide-spread  police  net,  the  great 
Chief  himself,  after  running  an  eye  over  him,  just  muttered, 
"Ah,  Knifer  Jackson!  All  right;  we  owe  you  one  good 
turn !  "  And  so  with  the  faintest  jerk  of  his  head  to  the 
side,  he  intimated  to  his  subordinates  that  Knifer  was  to  be 
let  go  his  way. 

Knifer  acknowledged  the  courtesy  with  a  touch  of  his 
cap,  and  a  pull  at  his  red-spotted,  bird's-eye  tie.  Then 
he  took  out  his  pipe,  filled  it  sedately,  and  marched  off. 

"  The  Chief  kens  me,"  he  said,  not  without  a  cer- 
tain pride;  "he  will  lay  for  Knifer  when  the  time  comes, 
keen  as  mustard,  in  the  way  o'  business.  But  he  kens  bravely 
that  Knifer  wadna  mix  himsel'  willing  in  a  shebeen  row 
wi'  ship-raw  rats  an'  keelies  frae  the  Greenside  Sunk  Flats! 
Na,  the  Chief  kens  Knifer  Jackson !  For  a  little  mair,  and 
if  there  hadna  been  so  mony  folk  aboot  him,  I  wad  hae 
offered  him  a  fill  o'  his  pipe.     Aye,  an'  he  wad  hae  taen 

45 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

it,  too,  freely  and  kindly,  frae  his  auld  acquaintance,  Knifer 
Jackson !  " 

From  this  it  might  be  supposed  that  Knifer  was  a  "  nark," 
a  "  split,"  a  "  sawny  plant  " — which  is  to  say  a  police  spy 
upon  the  doings  of  his  comrades.  But  no  one,  in  the  force  or 
in  the  profession  to  which  Knifer  belonged,  believed  that  for 
a  moment.  And  they  were  right.  Knifer  was  no  "  sawny 
plant."  He  did  not  "  split."  Those  who  called  him 
"  nark "  would  not  get  more  than  a  contemptuous  kick 
for  their  pains,  the  accusation  being  so  extremely  foolish. 

It  goes  without  saying  that  having  seen  Knifer  win  this 
great  moral  victory  over  his  mother,  Mag,  his  stepson  adored 
him.  The  Kid  had  appeared  suddenly  at  the  door  of  the 
garret  of  the  just-wedded,  happy  pair  in  Number  Seven 
Land,  Hagman's  Close,  the  residence  of  the  bridegroom. 

His  mother  had  forgotten  to  mention  him.  She  had 
thrown  Tom  Dinwiddie's  spanner,  with  the  mark  on  it, 
into  the  Messan  Water,  and  thought  no  more  about  the 
matter.  Small  responsibilities,  such  as  the  Kid,  sat  very 
lightly  on  Mad  Mag,  late  of  Back  Mill  Lands,  Kirkmessan. 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  she  went  to  the  door  with 
the  poker  in  her  grasp.  He  would  have  been  down  the 
stair  the  next  moment  with  a  new  clour  in  his  crown 
for  daring  to  come  interfering  with  her,  but  the  sharp  voice 
of  her  husband  fell,  as  it  were,  compulsively  over  her 
shoulder. 

"  Wha's  that?  "  he  demanded.  He  always  liked  to  know 
who  came  knocking  at  his  door.  It  was  a  peculiarity  of 
his. 

"Please,  sir,   I'm  the  Kid!"  said  a  faint  voice. 

"  What  kid  ?  " 

"The  Kid!" 

"But  wha's  kid?     Answer!" 
46 


THE    "KNIFER" 

"  Juist  her  Kid— Mag  McGhie's  Kid !  " 

"  Oh,  Knifer,  I  forgot  to  tell  ye,"  cried  the  once  fierce 
virago,  turning  trembling  to  meet  her  husband's  eyes ;  "  din- 
na  look  like  that  at  me — angrysome.  He  was  come  by 
honest — honest.  He's  Davie  my  man's  boy  and  the  heir 
to  some  property  i'  the  south  country!" 

"An  heir,  is  he?"  said  Knifer  grimly.  "Come  ben, 
boy,  and  maybe  we  will  find  some  way  o'  sharpening  your 
mither's  memory  for  the   future!" 

"Oh,  Knifer,  dinna,  dinna!  "  groaned  the  cowed  Mag. 

And  then  the  boy  wondered  at  the  man  before  him, 
thinking  him  to  be  a  kind  of  god,  who  had  wrought  this 
marvelous  change  in  his  mother.  Ministers,  Salvation- 
ists, temperance  folk,  preachers  unattached,  elders,  mission 
workers — all  had  had  a  try  at  Mag  down  in  Kirkmessan, 
and  she  had  chased  them  one  and  all  from  the  door,  and 
gone  on  worse  than  ever.  Whence  had  this  man  this 
power  and  authority?  Even  the  devils  obeyed  him,  trem- 
bling. 

It  was  indeed  strange.  But  then  the  Kid  had  not  seen 
the  man's  arm  double  under  him  as  he  fell  in  the  afternoon 
glow  on  the  Whinny  Hill.  Nor  heard  the  dreadful  sudden 
scream  of  that  other  as  the  knife  glittered  a  moment  be- 
tween his  shoulder  blades  on  the  hidden  slopes  of  the  Hunt- 
er's Bog. 

But  Mad  Mag  had  seen  and  heard  these  things.  They 
conduced    to    sanity.      They    made    for    peace. 

The  Kid  slipped  in,  taking  it  for  granted  that  he  had 
reached  home.  He  had  followed  the  trail  of  his  mother 
without  great  difficulty,  chiefly  by  inquiring  at  the  police 
stations  on  the  route  to  Edinburgh,  and  finding  out  if  any 
officers  had  been  recently  assaulted  in  the  discharge  of  their 
duty  by  a  woman  with  light  curly  hair,  blue  eyes,  and  a 

47 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

sunburnt  face.  Mad  Mag,  still  unreformed  by  the  Knifer, 
was  never  difficult  to  trace. 

So  the  Kid  trickled  round  the  corner  of  the  door,  edged 
a  minute  portion  of  his  minute  body  on  the  chair  the  Knifer 
indicated  to  him,  and  sat  shivering  under  the  steady  gaze  of 
the  small,  deep-set,  gray  eyes,  in  which,  too,  there  seemed 
to  lurk  a  glint  of  the  knife  from  which  his  stepfather  got 
his  name. 

"  So,"  he  said  after  a  painful  pause,  "  Fve  got  a  son, 
have  I?" 

Not  knowing  to  what  this  might  be  the  prelude,  both 
mother  and  son  sat  silent  under  that  steely  regard. 

"How  far  have  ye  come  the  day?"  asked  the  Knifer 
suddenly. 

"  Frae  Peebles  by  Eddleston,"  said  the  boy  simply.  "  I 
traveled  through  the  night,  too,  and  then  I  hae  been  in  the 
toon,  speering   [asking]   for  my  mither!" 

"  Twenty-three  miles,  besides  the  speerin',"  said  the 
Knifer,  "  that's  none  so  dusty  for  a  Kid!  Observe  that  bar? 
The  one  across  the  corner  where  the  clothes  are  drying.  See 
if  you  can  pull  yourself  up  over  it.  Get  your  chin  well  over 
— that's  it!  Well  done!  And  with  one  hand!  You'll  do! 
You'll  do,  Kid.  Mag,  make  the  bairn  some  tea.  And 
Fll  slice  the  ham.  Kid,  I  adopt  ye  on  the  spot.  Hang  me, 
if  I  dinna  be  a  father  to  ye!  " 

"  It  is  time  ye  began  your  '  prenticeship,'  "  said  the 
Knifer  suddenly  one  morning,  "  you  are  getting  too  fat, 
Kid.  In  our  profession  it  will  not  do  to  have  overmuch 
flesh  on  our  bones." 

"  If  it's  the  same  to  you,  sir,"  said  the  Kid,  who  had 
conceived  a  great  respect  for  his  stepfather  (and  justly), 
"  I  would  like  to  have  a  little  more  schoolin'.     I'm  only  in 

48 


THE    "KNIFER" 

the  '  Tenpenny  Reader,'  and  I  canna  aye  see  my  way  through 
compound  division.     The  fractions  bother  me." 

"Right — right,"  said  the  Knifer;  "I  have  little  enough 
education  myself,  but  if  I  had  had  more,  it's  me  would  have 
been  the  great  man.  But  ye  shall  go  to  the  school.  Ye 
shall  be  entered  as  a  half  timer,  laddie,  working  at  the 
Bertram's  Foundry  in  the  Walk.  And  there  are  night 
schools,  too,  free,  or  nearly.  But  that  will  be  little  matter 
to  the  son  of  a  well-to-do  man  like  me.  Ye  will  have  to 
take  my  name,  Kid." 

"  Na,  I  canna.  I  am  a  McGhie,  ye  see.  I'm  vexed, 
but  I  canna!  " 

Knifer  Jackson's  long  upper  lip  drew  down,  and  his 
chin  pushed  out,  prognathous  with  the  firming  of  his  jaw. 
The  knife-keen  gray  eyes  glittered.  But  the  Kid  never 
flinched. 

"  I  dinna  like  to  anger  ye,"  he  said,  "  I'll  be  a  guid 
boy,  an'  do  a'  that  ye  tell  me.  But  I'm  a  McGhie.  My 
faither  telled  me  that  when  he  was  deid  I  wad  be  '  The 
McGhie  ' — the  chief  o'   a'   the   McGhies   that  are." 

"Does  ony  siller  gang  wi'  it?"  asked  the  Knifer,  who 
did   not  see  the  force  of  barren   dignities. 

"I  dinna  think  sae,"  said  the  Kid  uncertainly;  "at 
least  my  faither  got  nane  that  I  heard  o',  but  then  he 
would  never  ask.     He  was  prood,  my  faither!  " 

"  Are  you  like  him  ?  "  the  Knifer  asked,  a  little  ma- 
liciously. 

"  Na,"  said  the  Kid,  blushing  with  shame,  "  I  am  said 
to  favor  my  mither!  "  And  at  this  the  Knifer  threw  back 
his  head  and  laughed  a  thieves'  laugh,  gurgling  and  silent, 
deep  in  his  throat. 

"  Come  out,"  he  said  suddenly  to  the  chief  of  the 
Clan  McGhie. 

49 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

As  they  went  along,  Knifer  Jackson  instructed  the  Kid. 
The  matter  of  the  surname  was  departed  from.  The  boy's 
firmness  in  adhering  to  his  birthright  had  settled  that  mat- 
ter.    He  even  mounted  higher  in  the  Knifer's  favor. 

"  At  the  door  ye  will  come  to — I  will  show  it  to  ye — 
ye  will  look  this  way  and  that  on  the  street,  and  if  ever 
there  is  a  policeman  or  a  man  wi'  thick-soled  shoon  that 
go  clunk-clunk,  or  a  man  lookin'  in  a  shop  window  at  three 
red  herrings  when  he  should  be  in  a  hurry  because  o'  the 
rain  or  the  wind,  ye  are  never  to  gae  near  the  school  door. 
Mind  that!     It's  a  very  private  school,  ye  see!  " 

The  Kid  said  that  he  would  mind.  He  would  do  ex- 
actly what  Knifer  Jackson  said,  if  so  be  he  suffered  for  it. 
For  Knifer  had  been  kind  to  him,  besides  reforming  his 
mother.     Knifer  must  be  a  good  man. 

At  this  Knifer  turned  quickly  about  and  cast  a  very 
sudden,  shrewd  glance  at  the  Kid's  serious  face.  But  there 
was  no  jesting  there,  and  somehow  the  Knifer  (though  he 
could  do  what  we  have  heard  of  on  the  Whinny  Knowe, 
and  come  quietly  home  to  his  tea)  was  strangely  touched. 
He  resolved  on  that  spot  that  he  would  do  all  that  he 
could  to  place  the  Kid  in  the  very  front  ranks  of  the 
profession. 

So  the  Knifer  and  the  Kid  descended  gradually  to  the 
lowest  cellar  floor  of  the  ancient  town  of  Edinburgh. 
Toward  its  easterly  part  the  deep  defile  of  the  Cowgate 
— formerly  a  bosky  lane  by  which  the  callants  of  the  city 
drove  home  the  lowing  kine  to  be  milked  twice  a  day — 
now  a  mere  gorge  of  buildings  thrown  "  reel-rail "  to- 
gether, divides  into  two  parts,  of  which  the  one  debouches 
toward  the  butt  of  the  Calton,  while  the  other  holds  away 
to  the  right  in  the  direction  of  the  Queen's  Park. 

The  pair,  holding  hands,  descended  swiftly,  striking  this 
50 


THE    "KNIFER" 

way  and  that,  up  alleys  and  down  them  again,  apparently 
entering  private  houses  by  one  door  and  leaving  them  by 
another,  without  ever  so  much  as  saying  "  by  your  leave  " 
to  the  inmates,  who,  on  their  part,  did  not  seem  in  the 
least  surprised. 

"  I  could  never  find  my  road  back  by  mysel' !  "  said  the 
Kid,  as  he  plunged  into  another  darksome  passage,  along 
which  the  Knifer  dragged  him  at  top  speed. 

"  Coming  back,  it  matters  less,"  said  the  leader,  "  but 
the  great  thing  is  to  tak'  a  new  road  every  time!  " 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do?  "  asked  the  Kid;  "  I  ken  nane 
o'  thae  places." 

"  Ye  will  learn — ye  will  learn,"  said  the  Knifer,  "  and 
for  a  day  or  twa  I  will  be  here  mysel'  to  bring  ye  hame.  So 
see  and  be  a  clever  scholar." 

Kid  McGhie  promised.  During  the  limited  time  he 
had  spent  at  Dominie  Tamson's,  he  had  always  been  thought 
quick  at  his  lessons.     So  he  had  no  fear  now. 

They  entered  a  long,  narrow  lane  with  bricked  walls  on 
either  side,  and  a  curious  smell  coming  over  them,  musty  and 
sweet.  Knifer  whispered  that  that  was  Elder's  big  brewery, 
which  they  would  go  and  visit  some  night  if  he  was  a  good 
boy.     The  Kid  resolved  to  be  a  good  boy. 

Then  quite  suddenly,  out  of  a  dozen  doors  all  alike,  the 
Knifer  suddenly  chose  one,  opened  it,  shut  it  behind  them, 
raced  along  a  passage,  mounted  and  descended  flights  of 
steps,  turned  at  right  angles,  and  finally  tapped  at  a  door. 
He  bent  his  ear  forward  as  one  who  listens  keenly. 

"  Who's  there?  "  came  from  within. 

"Knifer  and   his  Kid!" 

"What  do  you  bring?" 

"  Six  red  herrings  for  your  tea! " 

The  introduction  made  the  Kid  laugh.  It  was  so  like 
51 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

one  of  his  childish  games  down  by  the  shore  at  Kirkmessan. 
He  was  certain  that  he  would  like  this  school.  But  he  had 
not  seen  the  Knifer  buy  any  red  herrings  on  his  way. 
Curious,  that!  But  perhaps  he  had  brought  them  from 
home  in  his  big  inner  pocket. 

An  undersized  young  man,  with  what  would  now  be 
called  a  bicycle  back,  stood  behind  the  door,  and  greeted  the 
Knifer  effusively.  But  the  Knifer  passed  him  with  the 
slightest  nod,  like  a  lord  of  high  degree  in  the  presence  of 
a  menial — which,  indeed,  was  pretty  much  the  case. 

"The  schoolroom!"  said  the  Knifer,  with  a  certain 
pride  as  they  came  out  upon  the  most  curious  room  that  the 
Kid  had  ever  seen,  or,  indeed,  was  ever  likely  to  see. 
There  was  something  really  scholastic  about  it.  Maps  were 
still  on  the  wall.  The  stains  of  ink  remained  on  some  of 
the  desks  which  had  not  been  hacked  away  for  firewood, 
and  on  the  wall  was  a  little  rack  of  canes  mostly  split 
and  sadly  in  disrepair. 

"  Instruction  and  correction !  "  said  the  Knifer,  smiling 
grimly  at  these. 

"  It  looks  just  like  a  school,"  whispered  the  Kid,  awed 
in  spite  of  himself,  "  but  I  don't  see  any  master.  And  what 
are  all  these  black  boxes  and  things  on  the  floor,  and  scat- 
tered all  about  ?  " 

"  One  question  at  a  time,  youngster,"  said  the  Knifer. 
"  As  to  the  master — he  is  not  one,  he  is  a  lot !  I  am  one  of 
them !  " 

"You?"  cried  his  adopted  son,  looking  at  Mr.  Jackson 
to  see  if  he  were  in  jest.  But  no,  the  Knifer  was  very  much 
in  earnest. 

'  And  we  come  on  a  good  day  too,"  he  continued ;  "  I 
will  get  you  entered  among  the  intelligence  runners  di- 
rectly.    That's  low — low — no  '  class '  at  all   to  speak  of. 

52 


THE    "KNIFER" 

But  it's  good  and  safe,  and  does  to  blood  the  beginners  on. 
There's  a  lot  of  the  way-ups  here  to-day,"  he  added,  look- 
ing around.     "  Hey,  Billy!     Come  here!  " 

A  tall,  gray-headed,  respectable  man,  who  might  have 
been  a  country  beadle  out  of  a  job,  rose  and  came  quietly 
to  Knifer's  side.    He  put  his  hand  on  the  Kid's  head. 

"  New  stuff?  "  he  inquired,  "  yours?  " 

"  Aye,  in  a  sort  o'  way — wife's  kid — the  first  brood." 

"  Hum !  He  shapes  well — thick  about  the  shoulders, 
lean  about  the  flanks.     That's  the  way  /  like  to  see  'em !  " 

The  tall,  gray-headed,  respectable-looking  man  was  pres- 
ently introduced  to  the  Kid  as  Daddy  Lennox,  one  of  the 
most  famous  "  breakers  "  in  Edinburgh.  And  it  was  not 
long  before  Kid  McGhie  understood  that  it  was  the  various 
methods  of  finding  a  way  into  other  people's  houses  with- 
out previous  invitation  which  the  two  worthies  had  under 
discussion. 

To  this  the  Kid  had  no  serious  objections.  He  had 
never  been  educated  in  any  severe  code  of  morals.  It  was 
even  a  convenience  when  his  mother  had  been  taken  off  to 
prison  for  theft.  She  appeared  to  find  herself  pretty  com- 
fortable there.  The  Kid,  though  he  was  glad  to  remain  at 
liberty,  had  no  rooted  objection  to  confinement,  if  so  stupid 
as  to  be  caught.  He  had  remained  fairly  honest  up  to  date — 
apples,  turnips,  and  biscuits  off  grocers'  counters  did  not 
really  matter.  Besides,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  was 
in  the  way  of  earning  his  livelihood. 

As  the  Knifer  explained,  "  There's  scores  and  scores 
in  the  town  who  would  give  their  ears  for  your  chance 
to-day,  sonny!  It's  on  my  account,  ye  see,  Kid.  For  they 
think  a  heap  o'  me  here!  " 

Which,  indeed,  was  a  thing  evident  of  itself. 

The  Knifer  on  one  side  and  Daddy  Lennox  on  the  other 
53 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

explained  the  various  performances  which  were  at  present 
going  on  in  the  famous  "  Blind  Jacob  "  school  of  burglary. 

"  Ye  see,"  said  Daddy,  who  was  historical  chorus,  "  this 
is  no  thing  o'  yesterday.  What  it  was  named  '  Blind  Jacob  ' 
for,  I'll  tell  ye.  Ye  hae  heard  o'  Jacob's  ladder.  No  the  lad- 
der the  angels  gaed  clamberin'  up  an'  doon,  but  the  steps 
that  begin  aboot  opposite  the  schule  where  the  bairnies  learn 
their  lessons — aye,  the  high  schule,  that's  it.  Weel,  in  the 
days  lang  afore  there  was  ony  schule  there,  there  was  aye 
a  Jacob's  ladder.  For  a  heap  o'  folk  cam'  that  road  at  a' 
hours  o'  the  day  an'  nicht.  It  was  at  the  time  when  the 
New  Toon  was  a-biggin,  an'  by  my  faith  it  was  a  throng 
road.  Weel,  laddie,  there  was  a  blind  beggar  there,  that  sat 
i'  the  corner  where  ye  come  oot  up  by  what  is  noo  Royal 
Terrace — I  dinna  ken  his  name.  Nor  does  ony  ither  body 
that  ever  I  heard  o',  though  nae  doot  his  faither  or  his 
mither  gied  him  ane,  like  the  lave  o'  us!  But,  ye  see,  he 
was  aye  caa'ed  '  Blind  Jacob  '  by  a'body,  till  I  really  believe 
the  craitur  forgat  his  real  name  himsel' ! 

"  Weel,  this  Blind  Jacob  had  been  a  cabinetmaker,  lock- 
smith, whatnot,  in  the  days  o'  his  sicht,  and,  besides,  a 
great  crony  o'  the  famous  Deacon  Brodie — him  that  was 
hanged  in  his  sword  and  cocked  hat  like  a  great  gentle- 
man, at  the  drappin'  o'  his  ain  scented  cambric  handker- 
chief! And  for  a'  he  could  see  nane,  this  Blind  Jacob  was 
the  grandest  operator  in  a'  the  East-lands.  He  just  needed 
to  be  led  to  a  door,  or  ony  lockfast  place,  and — click — it 
flew  afore  him ! 

"  Of  coorse  it  was  easier  in  thae  days  to  mak'  a  reppi- 
tation  than  it  is  noo,  wi'  siccan  competition  in  the  profession. 
An'  there  were  nae  weary  Chubbs  and  Yale  time  locks  to 
drive  an  honest  man  into  his  grave.  Blind  Jacob  wad  never 
hae  dune  what  oor  honored  friend,  Knifer  Jackson,  here  has 

54 


THE    "KNIFER" 

dune — no  if  he  had  had  as  mony  e'en  as  there  are  in  a 
peacock's  tail !  " 

Knifer  Jackson  acknowledged  the  imposing  compliment 
with  a  grim  smile.  Daddy  Lennox  rilled  a  pipe,  dabbed  it 
down  tightly  with  his  little  finger,  and  lit  up.  As  he 
smoked  he  talked.  He  was,  to  all  appearance,  professor  of 
history  and  keeper  of  the  records  to  the  senatus  of  "  Blind 
Jacob's." 

The  Kid  could  not  take  his  eyes  off  him.  He  was  sure 
he  had  seen  him  standing  by  the  plate  at  some  kirk  door 
or  other,  his  hands  crossed  in  front  of  him  and  an  ear  in- 
clined to  distinguish  the  bald  clank  of  the  vulgar  penny 
from  the  sweeter  tinkle  of  falling  silver.  The  Kid  did  not 
frequent  the  insides  of  churches,  but  he  often  looked  in  at 
the  door  when  he  had  nothing  else  to  do.  In  the  winter  it 
was  nice  and  wTarm,  too,  in  the  vestibule,  after  the  elders 
and  deacons  had  slipped  on  tiptoe  along  the  aisles  to  their 
seats.  So  the  Kid  liked  churchgoing,  especially  when  Mad 
Mag  had  been  "  out "  the  night  before. 

"  And  this  Blind  Jacob,"  purred  Daddy,  the  historian, 
blinking  between  puffs,  "  he  was  a  man  o'  principle.  He 
didna  haud  wi'  Glasgow.  Na,  he  was  nae  friend  to  that  big 
muckle  scrap  heap  o'  hooses  an'  engine  smuts.  He  was  doon 
on  Glasgow.  And  in  thae  days,  as  it  continues  even  to 
the  present  time  "  (he  spoke  statedly,  blowing  a  cloud  be- 
tween his  sentences),  "Glasgow  had  a  famous  schule  for 
learnin'  pocket  picking.  Oh,  they  can  come  it  owtr  us  in 
that,  I  allow.  Say  what  ye  like,  Knifer,  they  have  us 
there!" 

"They  are  welcome;  it's  poor  work!"  commented  the 
Kid's  adopted  father  scornfully. 

"  Maybe — maybe,"  assented  the  philosopher  dispassion- 
ately,  "  yet  the  best  authorities  set  it  doon  as  ane  o'   the 

55 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

maist  ancient  pairts  o'  the  profession.  And  there's  siller 
in  it — in  a  wealthy  place  like  Glasgow,  that  is!  " 

The  Knifer  nodded  and  yawned. 

"Pouch  nicking  is  all  right — for  Glasgow!"  he  said, 
cracking  his  joints  one  after  the  other  in  token  of  boredom. 
The  historian  continued  his  moving  tale: 

"  So  this  Jacob  got  a  wheen  lads  o'  the  right  sort 
thegither  in  a  quiet  ken — they  had  nothing  like  this  in  thae 
days,  of  coorse.  And  he  began  to  learn  them.  And  he 
learned  them  an'  learned  them  till  there  wasna  a  gentle- 
man's hoose  within  twenty  miles  wi'  an  unbroken  bolt  or 
an  untried  hasp.  It  was  Blind  Jacob's  lads  that  took 
thirty  pound  Troy  weight  o'  goold  and  silver  oot  o'  Peni- 
cuik Hoose  ae  Sabbath  day,  when  Sir  George  was  at  the 
kirk — decent  man,  he  was  an  elder,  an'  pit  a  guinea  i'  the 
plate  every  Sunday  morning!  Mair  nor  that,  Jacob  garred 
the  countryside  believe  it  was  the  gypsies,  and  some  o'  them 
were  hanged  for  it,  too.  Serve  the  carles  right.  They  are 
forever  stealin'  hens  and  'taties  frae  the  farmers  and  giein' 
the  profession  a  bad  name !  " 

"  Ummpha,"  quoth  Knifer  Jackson,  "  gypsies  are  bad 
harborage — also  tinklers!     They  spoil  a'  markets!" 

"  But,"  continued  Daddy  Lennox,  looking  meditatively 
at  a  slender  youth  vaulting  feet  foremost  through  the  frame 
of  a  window  held  at  various  heights,  and  with  differing 
widths  of  aperture,  "  the  Glasgow  folk  have  had  naething 
to  boast  of,  against  hus  o'  the  East,  ever  since  auld  Blind 
Jacob's  day!  Na,  he  did  it  yince  and  for  all,  eh,  Knifer? 
And  what  we  see  here  is  the  fruit  of  his  endeavors!  " 

Daddy  Lennox  inclined  his  head  quite  reverently,  like 
a  minister  who  has  got  through  with  an  appropriate  pero- 
ration. Instinctively,  as  he  was  used  to  do  in  the  porches 
of  the  Kirkmessan  churches,  the  Kid  closed  his  eyes  for  the 

56 


THE    "KNIFER" 

benediction.     He  felt  somehow  that  it  was  time  to  make 
for  the  outer  door,  and  bolt  into  the  night. 

But  the  next  moment  the  Knifer's  voice  called  him  to 
other  and  more  practical  subjects.  It  was  evident  that  the 
Knifer  was  intensely  practical,  and  despised  all  but  the 
most  recent  practice  of  the  faculty. 

"  You  see  these  boys,"  he  said,  "  some  o'  them  younger 
than  you,  Kid.     Now,  come  along,  watch   them." 

Down  one  side  of  the  cobwebby  disused  hall,  once  a 
school  for  the  children  of  those  employed  about  the  brewery 
(in  the  time  of  a  certain  Celie  who  married  a  certain  junior 
partner) ,  ran  a  series  of  doors,  all  complete  on  their  frames, 
and  fitted  with  locks,  graduating  from  the  huge  clumsy 
block,  which  the  building  contractor  buys  by  the  gross,  to 
the  dainty  Chubb  which  shows  no  more  than  a  little  brass  lid, 
to  mark  the  place  where  the  delicate  key  must  be  inserted 
which  is  to  raise  each  of  the  complicated  levers  to  its  proper 
height.  These  doors  were  numbered  in  large  white  figures 
from  one  to  twenty. 

The  Kid  noticed  that  the  boys  in  waiting  seemed  intent 
on  little  manuscript  books  of  notes  which  they  held  in  their 
hands.    There  were  diagrams  opposite  each  page. 

"  Door  class !  "  called  out  the  Knifer,  in  a  voice  so  like 
that  of  the  Kirkmessan  schoolmaster  that  the  Kid  started. 

Fourteen  lads  of  various  ages  stood  up  at  the  summons, 
some  smartly  enough  attired  with  spotted  ties  and  stand-up 
collars,  others  without  either  collar  or  tie — these  last  being 
city  "  keelies,"  and  country  Johnny  raws  like  himself. 

"Now,  let's  see,"  said  the  Knifer;  "report  progress! 
How  far  have  we  got?  Beginners  who  can  do  less  than 
five — here  to  the  left !  " 

Seven   of   the   fourteen    fell   out. 

"  Those  who  cannot  pass  number  ten — to  the  right !  " 
5  57 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

This  done,  there  were  but  two  left — one,  a  great  hulking 
fellow  of  eighteen,  whose  soiled  and  hardened  hands  showed 
the  blacksmith's  apprentice  even  if  the  nose  had  not  scented 
the  unmistakable  burned  smell  of  the  horseshoeing,  and  a 
limber  little  fellow  of  fifteen,  with  eyes  clear  and  bright, 
a  scarlet  tie,  and  good  unspoiled  clothes,  the  trousers  hav- 
ing an  actual  folding  crease  from  the  knee. 

"  Hey,  Jock  Cockpen,  Duffus — ye  are  the  lads,"  cried 
the  Knifer,  "ye  will  be  credits  to  us  yet — I  dinna  doot! 
You,  Jock  "  (he  addressed  the  smith's  big  apprentice),  "  how 
many  are  you  good  for?" 

"  I  can  tackle  up  to  seventeen !  "  said  the  great  fellow 
without  pride  and  without  shyness. 

"And  you,  Duffus?  " 

The  bright  small  boy  with  the  red-silk  ribbon  about  his 
neck  fumbled  nonchalantly  with  a  cigarette  case — just 
then  becoming  the  fashion — and  replied  with  a  girlish  toss 
of  the  head,  "  If  I  had  any  decent  tools  to  work  with,  I 
could  begin  at  one  side  and  come  out  at  the  other,  but  with 
the  plow  irons  that  one  has  to  put  up  with  here,  I  could 
only  get  as  far  as  eighteen." 

"  Oh,  young  cock  o'  the  walk,"  said  Knifer  Jackson 
sharply,  "  what's  the  matter  with  the  school  tools  ?  They 
have  been  good  enough  for  a  fine  lot  o'  bursters,  shipping 
the  shell,  as  I  know." 

"  That's  just  it,"  said  Duffus,  looking  as  if  he  would 
like  to  light  a  cigarette  but  feared  a  resounding  box  on  the 
ear,  "  I  am  not  a  '  burster '  you  see,  but  a  '  coaxer,'  and  I 
would  as  soon  work  with  a  girl's  hairpin  as  with  the  whole 
class  outfit.  Why,  half  of  them  are  so  worn  that  they  won't 
go  into  the  keyholes." 

"What  do  you  do  then?"  said  the  Knifer,  smiling  at 
the  boy's  conceit. 

58 


THE    "KNIFER" 

"  Oh,"  said  the  youth  of  the  red-silk  tie,  caressing  his 
upper  lip  (smooth  as  an  eggshell)  with  the  end  of  a  rolled 
cigarette,  "  for  myself,  I  prefer  using  a  wire  off  a  ginger- 
beer  bottle  to  all  that  ironmongery !  " 

"  I've  a  good  mind  to  kick  you  downstairs  for  an  im- 
pudent young  blackguard !  "  said  the  Knifer,  "  but  speak  up 
— what  do  you  want  ?  " 

"To  work  with  you,  sir!"  said  the  boy,  his  eyes 
sparkling.  "  If  I  could  have  half  an  hour  of  your  turn-out, 
Knifer  Jackson,  I  could  guarantee  to  go  through  a  new 
improved  XYZ  time  and  word  combination  safe !  " 

The  Knifer  turned  to  a  shelf,  and  from  it  took  down  a 
little  black  bag  such  as  a  lawyer  might  carry  his  papers  in, 
or  a  surgeon  his  instruments.  There  was  a  little  gold  key 
(or  what  looked  like  it)  on  his  watch  chain.  He  opened 
the  bag  with  this,  and  after  removing  one  or  two  heavier 
implements  wrapped  in  oiled  silk,  he  took  out  a  roll  of 
morocco  leather.  Duffus  had  approached,  apparently  drawn 
by  an  overwhelming  desire. 

Slowly  the  Knifer  unrolled  the  long  tawny  coil.  Strange 
clean-cut  shapes  of  polished  steel  appeared,  hooked  and 
branched  at  the  top,  some  made  to  screw  together,  others 
with  nippers  and  grips,  levers  and  wrenches — a  whole 
battery  curiously  arranged  for  the  infraction  of  doors  and 
strong  boxes. 

"  Oh,"  cried  Duffus,  clasping  his  hands  with  a  kind  of 
seraphic  expression,  "  if  I  could  only  have  a  chance  to  use 
these  once!  " 

The  Knifer  handed  him  the  roll  instantly. 

"  Open  number  20,"  he  said,  "  and  I  will  take  you  with 
me  next  job  I  do!  " 

"Honor?"  queried  Duffus,  of  the  red  tie,  his  eyes 
fairly  goggling  with  delight. 

59 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

"Honor!"  said   Knifer  Jackson,  nodding  his  head. 

And  so,  upon  the  honor  which  is  among  thieves,  it  was 
arranged.  And  thus  ended  Kid  McGhie's  first  lesson  in 
the  burgling  college  founded  by  the  famous  "  Blind  Jacob," 
friend  and  pupil  of  Deacon  Brodie,  of  pious  memory. 


60 


CHAPTER  V 

"  blind  Jacob's  " 

E  see,"  said  the  Knifer,  "  there's  decent  and 
undecent  in  every  trade.  But  Daddy  Len- 
nox an'  me  and  a  wheen  mair  does  what  we 
can  to  keep  '  Blind  Jacob's  '  respectable!  " 
At  this  the  Kid  wondered.  For  though 
the  boys  and  youths  who  had  been  employed  on  the  doors 
and  black  boxes  had  been  well  dressed  enough — indeed, 
generally  better  than  himself — he  had  listened  to  their  dis- 
course. And,  with  the  exception  of  Duffus,  of  the  red  tie, 
and  the  blacksmith,  their  language  had  been  vile  beyond 
description.  Now  the  Kid  was  dainty  in  this  respect.  His 
father  had  cast  him  on  the  world  with  few  moral  principles 
to  speak  of,  but  hatred,  even  to  physical  loathing,  of  foul 
speech  was  one  of  them. 

And  the  masters  appeared  not  to  hear.  Even  the  Knifer 
and  Daddy  Lennox  chatted  on  calmly  to  each  other  amid 
the  surf  of  profanity  which  beat  upon  their  ears,  as  if  not 
a  word  had  reached  them.  And,  indeed,  it  is  exceedingly 
probable  that  it  did  not.  When  the  Kid  went  first  to  the 
pleasance,  the  roar  of  the  coal  carts  setting  northward  along 
the  street  in  the  direction  of  the  great  mineral  station 
of  St.  Leonard's  awaked  him  six  mornings  out  of  the 
seven   at  half  past   five   exactly.      But   after  a  few  weeks 

61 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

he  slept  serenely  through  the  turmoil,  and  it  was  only 
the  unwonted  quiet  of  the  Sabbath  morn  which  roused 
him. 

So,  if  the  scholars  of  "  Blind  Jacob's "  had  stopped 
swearing,  it  is  possible  that  Daddy  Lennox  and  the  Knifer 
would  have  remarked  it. 

The  Kid  did  say  something  on  the  subject  to  the  Knifer. 
But  his  stepfather  made  light  of  his  complaint. 

"  You'll  get  used  to  it,"  he  said,  all  too  truly,  "  and, 
besides,  if  a  boy  has  a  foul  tongue,  you've  got  a  sturdy 
fist.  Fighting  is  not  allowed  in  '  Blind  Jacob's,'  but  you 
are  at  liberty  to  settle  with  him  outside.  I'll  speak  to  the 
blacksmith  to  put  you  in  decent  training  and  see  fair 
Play." 

The  Knifer  had  no  reason  to  be  dissatisfied  with  his 
protege.  Perhaps  the  possession  of  a  dainty  set  of  tools — 
the  Knifer's  third  best — made  progress  easy.  Envious  com- 
rades said  so.  Perhaps  he  had  also  some  natural  skill  of 
touch.  Otherwise  he  owed  most  to  the  kindly  laconic  in- 
structions of  the  blacksmith,  Jock  Cockpen.  Be  all  that 
as  it  may,  the  Kid  rose  in  ten  days  out  of  the  scouring  undisci- 
plined ranks  of  the  intelligence  class  into  the  "  ordinary 
lock  "  form.  He  was  glad  of  this.  Because,  you  see,  he 
was  not  a  city  boy,  and  the  intelligence  class  were  really 
scouts  sent  to  find  out  all  about  the  habits  of  the  inmates 
of  some  house  which  was  to  be  "  tried."  The  number  and 
disposition  of  the  servants,  their  nights  and  afternoons  out, 
their  Sunday  excursions,  who  went  to  church,  and  who 
stayed  at  home — for  each  of  the  three  services  on  the 
Sabbath — at  what  times  the  family  dined,  had  family  wor- 
ship (if  any),  when  the  bedrooms  were  clear,  when  the 
living  rooms — what  lights  were  to  be  expected  in  the  house 
at  night — which  were  the  bedrooms  and  who  slept  there — 

62 


"BLIND    JACOB'S" 

if  a  dog,  big  or  little,  lived  on  the  premises  (this  was  im- 
portant), and  if  a  revolver  was  kept. 

All  this  information,  the  Kid  found,  had  to  be  sifted, 
and  that  carefully.  Once  he  fell  into  disgrace  with  his 
intelligence  teacher,  one  Keily  Cobb,  a  severe  man  with  beetle 
brows,  an  ex-railway  policeman,  who  had  tried  to  improve 
his  position  in  the  interests  of  a  persistent  thirst.  The  Kid's 
fall  was  owing  to  a  page  boy  with  a  cherub  face,  who  must 
have  been  worth  his  weight  in  gold  to  the  house  he  served. 
He  had  a  most  picturesque  imagination.  He  lied  the  Kid 
outside  in,  as  he  afterwards  boasted.  He  "  smoked  a  plant  " 
from  the  very  first  question,  though  the  Kid  began  artfully 
enough  by  the  offer  of  a  cigarette  specially  manufactured 
for  the  purpose  of  stunting  the  growth  of  page  boys.  The 
Kid's  report  very  nearly  disorganized  the  instructors  of  the 
college.  For  two  professors  of  "  Blind  Jacob's,"  one  of 
them  the  ex-railway  policeman,  went  the  very  next  night  to 
reconnoiter  the  mansion  of  the  page  boy.  There  they  fell 
into  a  trap,  from  which  only  their  speed  of  foot  saved  them, 
and  that,  too,  at  the  expense  of  a  valuable  eccentric  lever 
for  forcing  hasps  of  windows  in  a  horizontal  direction  with- 
out any  breaking  of  the  glass.  This  beautiful  piece  of  scien- 
tific instrument  making,  the  property  of  "  Blind  Jacob's  " 
college,  had  to  be  abandoned.  The  page  boy,  with  filial 
fondness,  hid  it  under  his  coat,  and  gave  it  to  his  grand- 
mother, who  was  out  of  a  coal  hammer  at  the  time.  It  was 
the  old  lady's  birthday,  and  he  was  a  boy  who-  spared  no 
expense. 

Keily  Cobb,  who  had  contracted  the  soft,  insinuating 
manners  common  to  all  railway  policemen,  said  some  few 
words  to  the  Kid  on  his  calling  the  class  roll  the  next  morn- 
ing— words  which  fairly  blistered  with  energy.  He  added 
that  if  the  Kid  had  not  come  to  "  Blind  Jacob's  "  in  the  way 

63 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

he  had  done,  he  would  have  been  kicked  over  the  wall,  and 
that  in  any  case  the  price  of  the  eccentric  lever  would  be 
deducted   from  his  first  earnings. 

In  all  innocence,  and  because  it  was  the  Kid's  nature 
not  to  owe  any  man  anything,  he  told  the  Knifer  the  sad 
story  of  his  debt  to  the  college. 

"  Keily  Cobb  said  that,  did  he?"  his  stepfather  and 
sponsor  remarked  grimly. 

"  He  did  say  so,  but  perhaps  he  did  not  mean  anything!  " 
said  the  Kid. 

"  Ah,  perhaps! "  said  the  Knifer,  and  strode  away  to  in- 
vite the  ex-policeman  to  a  private  explanation,  which  was 
brief  and  to  the  point. 

"  Once  a  poliss,  always  a  poliss,"  said  the  Knifer 
menacingly.  "  Keily  Cobb,  ye  are  well  aware  that  the 
information  that  the  twelve  tribes  bring  in  to  the  intelli- 
gence class  is  public  property,  and  not  to  be  used  without 
permission  by  private  individuals.  Now,  Keily  Cobb,  did 
you  bring  this  matter  before  the  council  ?  No,  I  should  have 
heard  of  it,  if  ye  had  done  so.  Ye  made  a  private  '  sped  '  of 
it — you  and  the  slipper  man.  You  could  get  my  Kid 
kicked  out,  could  ye?  Why,  man,  I  have  only  to  move  my 
finger  to  get  you  kicked  out,  and,  as  ye  are  a  '  ratting '  po- 
liceman, the  council  might  think  it  safer  to  let  it  be  with 
an  article  like  this  atween  your  shoulder  blades." 

The  wretched  Keily  Cobb  groveled,  clasping  his  hands, 
and  moving  his  feet  in  a  constant  nervous  shuffle. 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  Knifer,"  he  pleaded,  "  not  to  the  council. 
Don't  take  it  to  the  council!  Hammer  me  if  ye  like,  but 
don't  bring  it  up  at  the  meeting !  " 

"  Very  well,  Cobb,"  said  the  Kid's  sponsor,  "  then  ye'll 
please  report  that  my  laddie  is  a  fit  and  proper  person  to 
be   removed  to  the  ordinary   fastenings  class — he   has  had 

64 


"BLIND    JACOB'S" 

quite  plenty  of  your  sort  o'  training.  There  are  always 
enough  area  sneaks  ready  to  do  that  sort  o'  thing  for  a  good 
handy  boy.  And  there  is  no  use  of  the  Kid  wasting  more  o' 
his  time!  " 

"  I  quite  agree  wi'  you,"  said  Keily  Cobb;  "  I  will  see 
to  it. 

And  so,  in  this  simple  way,  the  Kid  received  a  rise 
in  the  world. 

These  were  days  full  of  interest  for  the  Kid.  He  had 
no  idea  that  he  was  doing  anything  really  wrong.  It  was 
a  business  in  which  he  could  show  his  gifts  and  his  appli- 
cation, just  as  in  another.  He  accompanied  Jock  Cock- 
pen  to  his  smithy  in  Leith  Wynd,  where  the  carters  brought 
their  horses  to  be  shod.  And  they,  as  it  seemed  to  the  Kid, 
swore  even  more  disgustingly  than  the  boys  in  the  school. 
The  Kid  wondered  if  he  could  never  achieve  success  without 
that.  But  when  he  came  to  think  of  it,  the  real  "  nobs  "  hard- 
ly ever  practiced  it.  There  was  the  Knifer,  for  instance. 
Did  he  swear?  Oh,  no;  he  measured  his  words  far  too  care- 
fully. When  he  was  pleased,  he  turned  the  corners  of  his  lips 
a  little,  a  very  little,  up,  and  a  general  sense  of  peace  and 
well-being  overspread  all  his  world.  The  lips  turned  down, 
and  immediately  everyone  stood  from  under!  But  swear — 
oh,  no!  The  Knifer  did  not  swear.  Nor  did  Daddy  Len- 
nox. He  talked  too  much.  He  always  had  such  a  pour  of 
things  to  say,  that  bad  words,  which  took  time  to  articulate, 
could  find  no  place.  Besides,  they  were  not  historical,  ex- 
cept in  the  dying  speeches  of  the  great  luminaries  of  the  pro- 
fession who  had  finished  their  course  on  the  scaffold,  espe- 
cially cursing  assembled  multitudes. 

Duffus,  of  the  red  tie,  that  hope  of  Blind  Jacob,  did  not 
swear.  He  was  too  clever.  Oaths  did  not  help  on  the 
giddy  heights  to  which  he  aspired.     Night  watchman  in  a 

65 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

good  bank  was  about  Duffus's  size — at  present,  that  is. 
Afterwards  he  might  rise  to  be  a  director.  But  Duffus  knew 
the  advantage  of  beginning  at  the  very  bottom  of  the  ladder. 
He  had  never  been  taken  in  by  a  page  boy.  He  had  been 
one  himself. 

Of  course,  however,  his  shining  abilities  made  him  some- 
what "  upsetting "  and  haughty  in  his  relations  with  his 
fellows,  and  he  gave  the  Kid  to  understand  that  it  was 
merely  as  the  son  of  his  father  that  he  condescended  to  speak 
to  "  the  likes  of  him."  However,  Duffus  did  not  swear. 
Night  watchmen  in  banks  have  no  one  to  swear  at,  and,  be- 
sides, Duffus  meant  to  be  diligent  in  his  calling.  He  was 
the  son  of  a  respectable  clerk,  and  from  his  knowledge  of 
his  father's  life,  he  was  firmly  resolved  not  to  spend  his 
life  sitting  on  a  stool.  But  a  regular  life,  strict  attention  to 
business,  the  living  of  laborious  days,  and  (by  the  nature  of 
his  avocation)  nights  still  more  laborious,  would  in  time,  ac- 
cording to  "  Poor  Richard's  Almanack  "  and  the  precepts  of 
the  late  B.  Franklin,  which  his  father  had  instilled  into  him 
as  a  religion,  conduct  him  to  a  modest  competence.  Then 
(it  would  be  duller,  but,  after  all,  one  cannot  always  be 
young)  he  would  betake  himself  to  some  little  county  town 
— Kinross,  Peebles,  Cromarty,  or  such  like,  and  there  buy 
a  watchmaker's  and  jeweler's  shop,  goodwill  and  all.  His 
training  would  fit  him  for  the  mechanical  part,  and,  he 
swore  by  the  original  Blind  Jacob,  he  would  know  how  to 
look  after  his  stock.  He  would  be  a  clever  fellow  who 
would  steal  from  "  A.  Duffus,  late  of  Edinburgh,  watch- 
maker and  jeweler — repairs  carefully  and  promptly  exe- 
cuted— clocks  wound  by  the  month  or  year."  He  would 
go  on  the  town  council,  and  perhaps — who  knows — one  day 
he  might  be  provost.  A.  Duffus  was  a  clever  fellow,  the 
shining  Admirable  Crichton  of  the  school,  and,  of  course, 

66 


"BLIND    JACOB'S" 

it  goes  without  saying,  far  too  clever  to  waste  his  breath  in 
profane  swearing. 

The  blacksmith,  solid,  rather  dull,  good-humored  Jock 
Cockpen,  did  not  swear  either,  unless  one  might  call  a  cer- 
tain sudden  explosive  sound,  like  the  first  inquiring  growl 
of  a  good  watchdog  when  he  hears  a  strange  footstep,  a 
"  swear."  This  gust  of  noisy  wind  occurred  when  Jock 
burned  his  fingers  more  than  usual  in  the  smiddy,  or  when 
a  fine  "  double-curve  "  fishing  hook  slipped  and  ran  under 
his  finger  nail.  But  so  far  as  any  meaning  went,  this  might 
have  been,  and  perhaps  was,  a  prayer. 

Dull  Jock,  with  his  clever  fingers,  was  one  of  the  best  in- 
fluences in  the  "  Blind  Jacob's  "  class  rooms.  Especially 
was  this  evident  after  he  passed  into  the  highest  or  safe  and 
strong-box  department,  with  private  tuition  (an  extra) 
in  time  locks  and  the  latest  improvements  in  open  sesame 
code  work.  Here  the  extremely  technical  nature  of  the 
lessons  and  the  amount  of  mathematics  involved  was  apt 
to  be  a  tax  on  these  simple  natures,  unaccustomed  to  re- 
straint. Many  full-blown  professionals,  indeed,  did  not 
think  it  at  all  beneath  their  dignity  to  attend  the  lec- 
tures. And  these,  swaggering  in  low-cut  waistcoats,  reefer 
jackets,  and  (in  some  cases)  heather-mixture  knickers, 
could  not  very  well  be  put  under  the  same  discipline  as 
the  regular  students. 

Now  all  this  could  not,  of  course,  go  on  in  a  city  the 
size  of  Edinburgh,  without  the  police  of  the  city  hearing 
something  of  "  St.  Jacob's  " — as  the  chief  in  his  hours  of 
ease  called  the  college  of  burglary.  It  was  a  foundation 
of  ancient  date,  and  that  it  was  still  abundantly  flourish- 
ing, the  columns  of  the  morning  papers  were  the  best 
witnesses. 

If   Captain   Henderland   did   not  know   the  locale,  the 
67 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

curriculum,  the  appliances,  the  examinations,  and  the  diplo- 
mas of  "  Blind  Jacob's,"  he  knew  it — by  its  works. 

The  leading  professors  were,  in  a  sort  of  way,  his 
personal  friends.  He  spoke  to  them  familiarly  when  he 
crossed  them  "  hoofin'  it  "  homewards  in  the  twilight.  He 
knew  well  that  they  had  been  engaged  on  business  of  the 
fraternity.  Yet  he  did  not  interrupt  them.  He  never 
thought  of  apprehending  them  on  such  occasions.  He  knew 
well  that  if  he  did  so,  all  he  would  find  would  be  a  couple  of 
soup  tickets,  a  penny  Testament,  a  pouch  of  tobacco  (empty), 
and  their  mother's  picture. 

The  swag,  if  they  had  pulled  it  off,  would  long  ago 
be  in  other  hands,  hidden  in  far  cellars,  covered  up  in  blame- 
less wood  yards,  under  the  bacchanalian  drip  of  beer  barrels 
— anywhere — anywhere!  Only  not  in  the  pockets  of  these 
high-learned  professors  of  the  light-fingered  art. 

Therefore  wary  Captain  Henderland  only  exchanged 
courtesies  with  them,  casually  mentioning  to  his  subordinates 
that  he  had  met  Knifer  Jackson  down  by  the  gas  works, 
and  so  did  his  best  to  set  the  watch  more  carefully  fcr  the 
next  time. 

Good  Mr.  Molesay,  the  police  missionary,  knew  them 
too.  But  he  did  not  waste  any  words  upon  the  concerns  of 
their  souls.  His  business  was  chiefly  with  the  other  sex,  the 
sex  which  was  not  allowed,  on  any  pretext  whatever,  to 
penetrate  into  "  St.  Jacob's."  It  was  among  women,  girls, 
and  thievish  untaught  boys,  snatching  apples  from  street 
shops,  that  Mr.  Molesay  drew  his  chief  trover.  He  knew 
about  "  Blind  Jacob's  " — as,  of  course,  he  knew  everything 
— from  the  women  who  were  not  admitted  there,  but 
who  were  as  curious  about  it  as  Eve  would  have  been  if 
Adam  alone  had  had  the  key  of  the  garden  where  the  apple 
was. 

68 


"BLIND    JACOB'S" 

It  was  owing  to  this  monastic  exclusion  of  women  that 
"  Blind  Jacob's  "  had  lasted  so  long.  But  all  the  same,  in 
moments  of  unbounded  ease,  to  this  and  that  towsy  Bet  and 
blowsy  Mall  its  graduates  had  talked  unwisely  but  too 
well.  So,  under  the  seal  of  the  confessional,  of  course, 
Mr.  Molesay  knew  a  lot. 

It  was  through  a  woman,  too,  that  Mr.  Molesay,  of  the 
city  mission  (and  a  regular  official  of  the  municipality), 
got  on  the  track  of  the  Kid.  One  of  his  best  and  most 
promising  patients  was  Kate  Earsman,  whose  "  man  "  was 
Billy  Earsman,  barman  and  "  bully  "  to  a  notorious  estab- 
lishment in  the  Cowgate,  called  the  "  British  Imperial 
Palace,"  which  had  so  many  entrances  that  closing  time 
never  happened  to  all  of  them  at  once.  You  have  only  to 
go  all  round  the  British  Imperial  Palace  to  find  a  spot 
where  it  was  always  afternoon,  and  never  by  any  chance 
ten  o'clock  and  closing  time!  Sundays  were  admittedly  more 
difficult,  for  the  B.  I.  P.  was  no  shebeen.  But  the  landlord 
and  also  his  barman,  Billy  Earsman,  are  hospitable  men. 
You  could  be  accommodated  as  friends  of  the  family.  You 
paid  nothing — that  day.  But  if  you  showed  a  reluctance  to 
settle  on  Monday,  or  by  Tuesday  at  the  latest,  Billy  Earsman 
would  call  upon  you,  and,  if  you  did  not  pay  on  the  nail, 
it  were  better  for  you  to  be  scudding  along  the  Great 
North  Road  toward  London.  There  was,  of  course,  some 
leakage  in  this  way,  but  a  little  increase  in  the  price  (to 
cover  risks)  more  than  squared  all  that,  and  everyone  was 
satisfied. 

Billy  Earsman,  then,  was  "  straight."  At  least  he  was 
only  crooked  under  cover,  as  it  were,  of  his  principal,  and  in 
his  service.  All  the  same,  a  great  many  people  thought  it 
wise  to  stand  well  with  Billy,  who  might  be  seen  from 
morning   till   midnight,    with    his   shirt   sleeves    rolled    up, 

69 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

within  the  bar  of  the  British  Imperial  Palace  pulling  shining 

brass  levers,  wiping  /inc.  and  settling  quarrels.  Sometimes 
he  settled  them  so  thoroughly  that  the  settlements  were  re- 
moved to  the  Royal  Infirmarj    peacefully  reposing  on  the 

same  push  cart,  the  pusher  primed  with  a  suitable  lie.  pro- 
vided by  the  establishment.  Ogg,  the  "  boss."  kept  a  stock. 
of  these. 

Now  Billy  Earsman  had  a  wife,  wedded  according  to 
the  easy  Scottish  fashion  (which  is  yet  as  binding  as  any 
other).  Kate  Earsman  was  a  little,  dark,  quick-tripping 
mite,  with  a  sharp  tongue  and  a  very  decent  heart  of  her 
own.  She  had  once  been  a  barmaid,  and  for  the  best  part  of 
a  year  her  ripliques  were  famous  over  the  city — that  is. 
among  young  men  of  a  certain  counter-leaning,  graceful 
cigarette-lighting  type.  But  after  she  had  "  fallen  in  with 
Billy  Earsman  she  ceased  to  interest  this  class.  Billy  in- 
timated that  he  would  "  slug "  any  qualified  split-soda 
rooster  (such  was  his  vulgar  way  of  talking)  who  dared 
to  say  a  cross  word  to  Kate.  That  lost  her  her  situation. 
For  Messrs.  Gape  and  Suck,  the  well-known  restaura- 
teurs, do  not  put  up  with  that  sort  of  thing  in  any  of  their 
young  ladies.  So  Billy  Earsman.  though  a  bit  rough,  being 
at  heart  a  "  straight  un,"  forthwith  married  Kate,  and 
took  a  little  Hat  for  her  in  a  decent  house,  within  hailing 
distance  of  the  British  Imperial  Palace,  in  the  very  swing  ot 
Cowgate  life  and  bustle. 

Their  happiness  had  been  great  for  three  years.  And 
then  Kate,  who  had  begun  before  she  left  "  Gape  and 
Suck's  "  to  take  a  little  stimulant — just  to  enable  her  to 
stand  the  long  hours  and  the  "  being  on  her  feet  " — lost  her 
little  girl. 

She  was  only  just  a  baby,  but  she  walked  at  nine  months, 
most  wonderfully  enunciated  "  Dada  "  at  eleven,  and  could 

70 


"BLIND    JACOB'S" 

count  as  far  as  three  before  she  was  eighteen  months.  To 
these  marvels  let  it  be  added,  always  on  her  mother's  author- 
ity, that  she  could  say  gu-gu  with  a  "  perfectly  sweet " 
intonation  whenever  she  wanted  her  bottle,  that  she  ham- 
mered on  the  board  in  front  of  her  little  chair  with  a  spoon 
in  the  most  natural  manner,  and  that  to  see  her  hiccough 
was  a  sight  entrancing  in  the  highest  degree.  Never  in  the 
world  was  there  a  happier  ex-barmaid.  Never  certainly  a 
happier  barman !  But  Baby  Earsman  caught  a  cold,  rapidly 
developed  diphtheria  in  the  damp,  raw  air  which  sinks  into 
the  trough  of  the  Cowgate — the  same  which  makes  little 
child  funerals,  with  the  father  carrying  the  tiny  coffin 
like  a  violin  case  under  his  arm,  and  two  or  three  forlorn 
men  trudging  through  the  mud,  the  commonest  of  winter 
sights. 

Of  course  Billy  Earsman  did  not  "  put  away  "  his  little 
Polly  in  this  way.  By  no  means.  He  had  a  proper  hearse 
and  a  pair  of  horses,  and  his  principal,  King  Ogg,  great 
magnate  of  the  Cowgate  world  of  publicans,  having  ex- 
plained that  both  he  and  Billy  could  not  be  absent  from 
the  B.  I.  P.  at  the  same  time,  compromised  for  his  absence 
by  sending  three  proper  mourning  carriages  from  Croan's, 
the  great  undertaker's  in  the  Walk.  So  if  black  horses, 
flowing  manes  and  tails,  solemn,  impenetrable  coachmen, 
could  have  made  up  to  Kate  Earsman  for  the  loss  of  little 
Polly,  she  would  have  mourned  no  more. 

Never  had  such  a  sight  been  seen  in  the  Cowgate.  Peo- 
ple came  from  as  far  as  "  Blind  Jacob's,"  on  the  one  hand, 
and  Nelton's  printing  works,  on  the  other,  to  see  the  sight. 
And  the  boy  who  tried  to  throw  a  gob  of  mud  at  a  black- 
coated,  solemnly  rosetted  coachman  with  streamers  on 
his  hat,  received  a  lesson  that  he  will  never  forget.  When 
he  crawled  out  of  the  gutter  into  which  fifty  feet  had  kicked 

71 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

him,  and  had  begun  to  rub  the  various  blue  places,  he 
comprehended  that  there  was  to  be  "  none  o'  that  "  on  the 
day  of  the  burying  of  Billy  Earsman's  little  Polly. 

But  when  Billy  was  gone — with  Polly  in  the  box — 
Kate  would  not  call  it  a  coffin  though  it  had  white  satin 
within,  polished  oak  and  silver  without — Kate  Earsman, 
wife  and  mother,  was  left  alone.  You  see  she  was  only  a 
poor  little  barmaid  who  had  been  so  happy,  who  had  had 
the  finest,  the  dearest,  ah — sobbed  Kate  Earsman  here — 
"  there  never  was  a  baby  like  my  Polly." 

Of  course  there  was  not — there  never  is!  Poor  mother, 
empty  heart,  empty  house,  little  empty  bed  that  hurts — 
oh,  how  it  hurts!  Never  another  child  like  that  one  which 
was  lost  that  all  unforgotten  day — or  as  any  mother's  only 
child,  in  any  dreary  house,  on  any  desolate  day! 

So  Kate  Earsman  took — who  shall  cast  the  first  stone? — 
"  something  to  drink,"  and  Mr.  Molesay  on  his  return  from 
the  funeral  found  himself  with  a  job  on  his  hands.  For 
a  time  the  poor  little  mother  seemed  to  have  buried  her 
self-respect  in  Polly's  grave.  She  wanted  to  forget,  and 
she  took  the  easiest  way — the  way  that  so  many  have  trodden 
to  the  point  beyond  which  there  is  no  hope — at  least  none 
for  a  woman. 

Billy  Earsman  behaved  wonderfully  well — even  when 
he  knew  that  poor  Kate  was  inventing  excuses  to  get  him 
out  of  the  room  so  that  she  might  disinter  the  bottle  of 
brandy  she  had  so  carefully  hidden.  The  causeless  laugh, 
the  vacant,  wandering  eye,  even  the  maudlin  tenderness 
betrayed  her.  But  Billy,  rightly  interpreting  his  duty,  and 
schooled  by  Mr.  Molesay,  said  nothing  in  anger.  It  was 
because  of  Polly,  he  repeated  to  himself,  and  when  any 
light  tongue  glanced  in  the  direction  of  his  wife's  frailty, 
Billy's  eye   flared  sudden  and   unmistakable. 

72 


"BLIND    JACOB'S" 

"One  other  word  and  I'll  stretch  you!"  was  what  it 
said. 

But  Mr.  Molesay  kept  it  prominently  in  Billy's  mind 
that  help  would  come  not  by  might  nor  by  power,  but 
by  a  certain  still  small  voice — that  same  voice  which  told 
Billy  that  it  was  not  wrong  for  him  to  "  stretch  "  wrong- 
doers in  the  B.  I.  P.,  but  it  was  wrong  for  him  to  take  a 
handful  of  gold  and  silver  out  of  his  master's  till. 

"  It's  like  this,  Billy,"  said  the  missionary,  "  we  must 
fill  the  gap.  Nature  abhors  a  vacancy — they  taught  me 
that  at  college.  It's  not  much  I  learned  there  that  I  find 
of  use  to  me  down  here  in  the  Cowgate.  But  it  just 
means,  Billy,  that  if  God  has  seen  fit  to  take  little  Polly 
out  of  your  wife's  life,  we  must  put  something  else  in." 

"  I'll  do  my  best,"  said  Billy  Earsman  slowly,  "  but 
it  takes  time — that  does!     It's  a  big  vacancy  Kate  has  got." 

"  I  mean,"  said  Mr.  Molesay  quickly,  "  get  her  inter- 
ested in  something.  Now  what  do  you  say  to  our  meetings, 
Billy?  Ever  been  to  any  of  them?  They're  not  dull,  you 
know — hymns,  harmonium,  solos,  a  magic  lantern  for  the 
children  (and,  indeed,  the  grown-ups  don't  dislike  that  part 
either),  a  warm  hall,  good  air,  a  little  tea  and  talk  after- 
wards among  the  workers!  " 

"  Nice  thing  it  would  be  to  see  me,  sir,"  grinned  Billy, 
"  all  the  week  at  Ogg's  Pub.  handing  out  pints  o'  beer  as 
if  I  were  weavin'  a  web,  and  then  a-Sundays  do-ray-me-ing 
'  Jerusalem  the  Golden  ' !  No,  Mr.  Molesay,  sir — I  like 
you,  but  it  wouldn't  do!     Indeed  it  wouldn't!  " 

"  Not  for  you,  perhaps,"  said  Mr.  Molesay,  who  was 
a  wise  man  and  did  not  sow  his  wheat  where  only  oats 
would  grow,  "  but  for  Kate!  " 

"  Kate  had  better  learn  to  be — "  Billy  began,  flushing 
hotly. 

6  73 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Mr.  Molesay,  "  but  then  she  only 
flies  to  the  drink  to  drown  her  sorrow.  You  know  how  vain 
that  is — how  it  just  gets  back  at  you  three  times  worse 
afterwards.  Well,  all  I  want,  Billy,  is  just  a  promise  that 
you  won't  interfere  if  I  do  get  your  wife  interested  in 
my  mission.     You  won't  make  fun  of  her " 

"  Umm — I'm  a  funny  man  by  nature,  I  know,"  said 
Billy  bitterly,  "  but  losing  our  little  Polly,  and  Kate  takin' 
it  like  this,  don't  strike  me  as  more  than  average  amusin' !  I 
think  I  can  manage  to  keep  from  heehawin',  sir,  out  loud ! 
If  I  don't,  I  give  you  leave  to  kick  me  hard !  " 

Mr.  Molesay,  the  city  missionary,  was  a  quiet  little 
man  with  very  pleasant  eyes.  He  was  clean  shaven,  and 
had  the  true  silver-glinting  hair  which  comes  only  to  dark 
men  who  turn  gray  early.  He  was  no  great  preacher,  they 
said,  in  the  pulpit,  but  give  him  three  or  four  square  yards 
of  a  mission-room  floor,  and  a  Cowgate  audience — then, 
I  vouch  for  it,  you  heard  something. 

Well,  Mr.  Molesay  went  to  work  with  Kate.  She  had 
a  voice,  a  pretty,  clear  contralto,  not  strong,  but  with  cer- 
tain curious  low  notes  in  it — something  like  the  jug-jug 
in  the  song  of  the  nightingale,  that  took  the  listener  by  the 
throat.  Mr.  Molesay  spoke  to  Leo  Morse,  the  great  singer, 
about  her.  Morse  had  once  been  a  celebrated  operatic  don, 
but  had  suddenly  seen  the  heavens  opened  and  eternity 
looking  through  at  him.  It  had  been  through  the  rifted 
bottom  of  a  Pullman  sleeper,  and  his  traveling  companion 
in  the  upper  berth  lay  dead  across  him,  between  his  eyes  and 
the  quiet  stars.  Since  that  he  had  spoken  much  to  his  fel- 
lows of  the  things  which  are  not  yet,  as  these  had  been 
revealed  to  him  in  that  moment  of  time.  He  called  this 
his  experience.  It  was  not  that,  for  of  true  experience  he 
had  had  none.     But  at  any  rate  it  was  a  genuine  impulse, 

74 


"BLIND    JACOB'S" 

and  Mr.  Molesay  employed  him,  both  to  speak  in  the 
Cowgate  City  Mission  Hall,  and,  above  all,  in  managing  to 
organize  the  singing,  which  was  his  great  attraction. 

"  Ah,"  said  Leo  Morse  when  he  had  listened  to  Kate's 
simple  warbling,  "  there  is  not  a  trace  of  training,  of  course 
— but,  if  she  had  had  it,  she  might  have  done  great  things!  " 

"  I  don't  want  her  to  do  great  things,  Morse,"  said 
Mr.  Molesay;  "indeed,  I  am  particularly  desirous  that  she 
should  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  But — I  suppose  you  couldn't 
— ah — it  would  be  impossible  to  give  her  a  few  lessons — 
yourself,   I  mean!  " 

"  Quite,  I  fear,"  said  the  great  man.  "  You  see,  I  have 
my  bread  still  to  earn  now  I  don't  sing  in  opera,  and  my 
own  pupils  take  up  all  my  time — that  is,  when  I  am  not 
down  here  with  you !  " 

Mr.  Molesay  looked  disappointed  and  sighed.  Leo 
Morse,  also,  threw  back  his  long  black  hair,  and  seemed 
more  pensive  than  usual. 

"  But,"  he  continued,  "  I  know  a  lady — a  young  lady, 
who  might  give  her  what  she  wants.  I  suppose  you  only 
want  this  girl  to  sing  solos  and  things  here  at  your  meetings." 

"  That,  of  course,"  said  the  missionary.  "  But  it  is  life 
or  death  to  keep  her  occupied  in  the  right  way  for  the  next 
few  months.    She  has  just  lost  her  only  child,  a  little  girl!  " 

"Ah!"  said  Leo  Morse  very  softly.  Then  he  nodded 
his  head  slowly.  A  curtain  drew  up  suddenly  and  he  saw 
a  part  of  his  own  past  he  did  not  often  think  about — a  little 
home,  a  bright  face,  a  cradle,  then  a  blank  day,  and  nights 
when  he  went  home  to  bitterness  and  desolation. 

"  Ah,"  he  murmured  again,  more  softly  still.  "  I  think 
I  will  take  your  Kate  Earsman  in  hand  myself.  When 
can  she  come  ?  " 

Then  very  joyfully  Mr.  Molesay  arranged  matters  with 
75 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

Kate  and  her  husband.  To  Kate  he  said  that  this  was 
the  one  chance  of  her  life.  Which  was  true,  but  did 
not  interest  her  greatly,  seeing  she  believed  that  life  was  over 
for  her  and  buried  in  Polly's  grave.  But  she  looked  across 
at  her  husband  and  he  nodded  brightly. 

"  Do  as  Mr.  Molesay  says,  Kate,"  said  Billy.  "  I'm  sure 
Polly'd  be  proud!" 

"  Do  you  think  she  will  know?  Will  she  hear — if  I  can 
learn  to  sing  a  solo  in  the  mission  hall?  Would  she  be 
there?" 

She  turned  eagerly  and  trustingly  to  Mr.  Molesay  as 
to  an  acknowledged  spiritual  authority  on  such  subjects. 

The  good  man  did  not  stop  to  chop  theology.  He 
cared  not  a  button  for  eschatology.  But  he  knew  his 
business,  and  answered  without  hesitation  that  there  was 
not  the  least  doubt  that  Polly  would  hear  her  mother  sing- 
ing in  the  mission  choir  and  be  happy  thereat. 

Not  content  with  that,  he  set  about  to  prove  it.  Which 
was  not  so  wise;  though,  in  its  way,  it  was  ingenious,  too. 
"  Their  angels,"  he  said,  "  '  do  always  behold  the  face  of 
God.'  So  it  is  written  of  the  children.  Now  God  hears 
prayer — therefore  also  praise.  Therefore  those  '  in  the 
presence '  will  also  hear,  as  courtiers  may  listen  to  the 
songs  sung  at  a  king's  banqueting  table." 

Perhaps  it  would  have  been  better  if  Mr.  Molesay  had 
not  expanded  his  simple  affirmation,  because,  while  he  was 
speaking,  he  saw  Kate's  eyes  wander,  and  he  knew  she 
was  thinking  of  her  Polly  lying  out  there  in  a  far  corner 
of  the  dean.  But  still  this  led  to  something.  For  it  caused 
Kate  to  speak  of  a  little  friend  she  had  made  recently — a 
strange  laddie,  belonging  to  people  with  nothing  good  in 
them,  but  still  having  much  good  in  himself.  He  had  seen, 
in  one  of  his  rambles,  the  forlorn  little  mother  kneeling  at 

76 


"BLIND    JACOB'S" 

Polly's  grave.  And  the  next  day  when  she  went  to  the 
Dean  Cemetery,  lo!  on  the  grave  lay  a  bouquet  of  wild 
flowers. 

The  country  boy  must  have  gone  far  afield  for  those. 
And  every  day  since,  moved  by  some  feeling  of  sympathy 
for  the  suffering  he  was  just  beginning  to  understand,  the 
Kid  had  laid  his  offering  on  the  tomb — garden  flowers 
mostly,  as  the  season  grew  later,  and  the  days  shortened. 
It  will  not  be  advantageous  to  inquire  too  carefully  as  to 
how  he  came  by  these.  But  at  any  rate,  Kate  had  made 
a  friend,  and  as  it  chanced,  the  Kid  had  made  many  more. 

"  '  McGhie's  Kid  ' — that's  what  he  calls  himself!  "  said 
Kate  smiling,  "  but  at  present  he  lives  with  a  man  named 
Jackson — Knifer  Jackson — I   think  he  said." 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other,  and  the  barman 
whistled,  a  long,  low,  comprehensive  whistle. 

"  Kate,"  said  her  husband,  "  you're  getting  in  choice 
company  these  days.  Knifer  Jackson  has  seen  the  inside 
of  more  men's  houses  than  I've  ever  seen  of  churches — more 
shame  to  me,  I  dare  say.  And  there's  one  or  two  that  have 
owed  their  longest  sleep  to  him,  if  all  tales  be  true!  " 

"  He  does  his  killing  among  his  own  sort,  though,"  said 
Mr.  Molesay.  "  When  he  does  real  business  he  leaves 
his  knife  at  home  and  trusts  to  a  wire  or  two  on  the 
lawn !  " 

"  I  dare  say,"  laughed  Billy,  "  if  I  were  to  abuse  the 
devil  before  you,  Mr.  Molesay,  you  would  find  something  to 
say  for  him." 

"  I  dare  say  there  is  something  to  be  said!  "  retorted  the 
missionary  smiling. 

Then  he  turned  to  Kate,  the  barman's  wife. 

"  Well,  anyway,  Kate,  let  me  see  your  young  friend 
the  first  day  you  can  entrap  him  up  here,"  he  said.     "  I  will 

77 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

look  in.  Perhaps  we  can  get  him  out  of  his  bad  surround- 
ings." 

For  Mr.  Molesay  knew  well  that  everything  is  com- 
parative, and  that  there  is  a  whole  world  of  difference 
between  "  Blind  Jacob's "  and  Hagman's  Close,  where 
dwelt  the  stepson  of  Knifer  Jackson,  and  the  cozy  home 
of  the  barkeeper,  Billy  Earsman,  and  his  wife  Kate — even 
if  Billy  broke  on  an  average  half  a  dozen  heads  a  day  in  the 
pursuit  of  his  calling. 

A  broad-minded,  hard-working,  Christian  man  was  Mr. 
Molesay,  shrewd  and  yet  childlike,  with  a  soul  much  too 
big  for  his  body,  and  methods  of  doing  his  work  too  original 
for  the  most  tolerant  denomination. 

So  it  was  about  this  time  that  the  Kid  began  to  live  a 
double  life. 


78 


CHAPTER   VI 

ARCH  BOLD  MOLESAY,   CITY  MISSIONARY 

ISHERS  of  men!"  said  Mr.  Molesay  to  his 
friend,  the  minister  of  the  Peden  Memorial 
Kirk  in  the  Cowgate,  a  fellow-worker  in  the 
city  deeps.  "  'Tis  a  true  word.  But  if 
your  basket  be  like  mine,  Mr.  Rodgers,  the 
catch  is  a  light  one!  " 

The  minister  shook  his  head,  gazing  abstractedly  out  of 
the  little  oriel  window  which  looked  up  and  down  the  grimy 
defile.  For  the  Rev.  Harry  Rodgers  was  not  of  those  slum 
ministers  who  live  comfortably  in  the  suburbs,  and  look  in 
on  their  parishioners  when  they  have  their  sermons  finished, 
and  there  is  no  one  handy  to  play  golf  with. 

"  And  sometimes,"  he  broke  out  suddenly,  "  when  we 
do  get  a  bite,  as  like  as  not  it's  a  sand  eel  or  a  hungry 
brute  of  a  dogfish." 

"Anything  been  annoying  you,  Rodgers?"  said  Mr. 
Molesay. 

They  had  been  at  college  together,  these  two,  and  had 
kept  up  their  intimacy. 

"  Only  that  abominable  poison  spot,  '  Blind  Jacob's.'  I 
hate  it,  and  all  its  works!"  cried  the  minister.  "It 
poisons  everything.  Sometimes  I  think  the  police  don't 
want  to  root   it  out.     All  they   do  is   to   chivvy   it  about 

79 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

from  one  place  to  another,  about  once  in  three  months  or 
thereby!  " 

Mr.  Molesay  thought  awhile. 

"  Perhaps  there's  more  in  it  than  that,"  he  said  pres- 
ently ;  "  it  centralizes  and  in  a  way  modifies  the  black- 
guardism of  the  city.  '  Blind  Jacob's  '  doesn't  allow  any 
knife-and-revolver  work,  and  I  think  the  general  tone  has 
improved  in  my  time." 

"  I  am  astonished  at  you,  Molesay,"  said  Mr.  Rodgers. 
"  Rank  burglary  is  the  essence  of  the  matter — the  teaching 
of  it  to  innocent  children " 

"  Ah,  that's  true  enough,"  sighed  Mr.  Molesay,  "  and 
a  heartbreak  it  is  to  me.  But  I'm  none  so  sure,  if  '  Blind 
Jacob's  '  were  broken  up,  that  things  would  be  much  im- 
proved." 

"Nonsense!"  said  Mr.  Rodgers.  "You've  lived  too 
long  in  this  atmosphere,  Molesay.  You  are  beginning  to 
see  things  with  a  squint — just  as  madhouse  doctors  become 
mad  if  they  stick  too  closely  to  their  profession." 

"  So  I  may  end  by  becoming  a  burglar,  and  even  a  pro- 
fessor in  'Blind  Jacob's,'  eh?"  cried  the  silver-headed  mis- 
sionary. 

"  Well,  not  exactly,"  said  Rodgers,  whose  sense  of  humor 
was  not  his  strong  suit,  but  rather  it  was  the  steady,  firm, 
grave  devotion  to  duty  which  made  him  the  power  he  was 
in  that  dim  place ;  "  not  exactly !  But — don't  forget, 
Molesay,  that  it  never  does  to  confuse  right  and  wrong. 
Right  is  right,  and  wrong  wrong,  in  the  Cowgate  as  else- 
where. '  Blind  Jacob's  '  is  bad — conception,  execution,  in- 
fluence, all  its  works — and  the  sooner  it  is  rooted  out  the 
better!  " 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Mr.  Molesay  gently.  "  Yes,  you 
are  right.     It  ought  to  be  done.     It  must  be  done.     But 

80 


ARCHBOLD    MOLESAY,    CITY    MISSIONARY 

when  it  is  done,  mark  me,  there  will  be  an  outbreak  of  the 
old  bad  days — killing  will  be  held  no  murder,  and  there 
will  be  no  authority  as  at  present,  severe  enough  of  a  kind, 
over  the  rascaldom  of  the  city!  " 

"I  see  this  clearly  enough,"  said  Mr.  Rodgers  dog- 
gedly, "  that  one  can  only  face  one  problem  at  a  time.  And 
— you  know  Henderland  has  resigned  the  chiefship  of  police. 
I've  just  been  to  the  lord  provost  with  some  drastic  sug- 
gestions, one  of  which  is  that  the  first  duty  of  his  successor 
should  be  to  root  out  and  utterly  destroy  '  Blind  Jacob's.'  " 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Molesay.  "  Of  course  you 
know  best,  and  as  you  say,  right  is  right.  You  know  your 
duty,  and  must  do  as  your  conscience  tells  you.  But  from 
the  point  of  view  of  my  parishioners,  none  of  whom  ever 
enter  a  church  door,  I  think  you  have  put  your  hand  into 
a  wasp's  nest.  Henderland  was  perhaps  not  so  modern  in 
his  methods,  nor  so  conceited  as  some.  But — he  had  been 
chief  for  twenty-five  years.  And  when  anything  went 
wrong,  he  would  say  on  hearing  the  circumstances,  '  that's 
one  of  three  men ! '  and  name  them  forthwith.  Then  he 
would  have  the  three  men  up,  and  make  them  prove  the 
employment  of  their  time  on  the  night  in  question.  There 
were,  of  course,  the  usual  breakings  into  jewelers'  shops, 
which  ought  to  have  been  better  guarded,  and  the  same 
bathroom-window  robberies,  where  the  hasp  has  been  left 
open.  Safes  and  strong  boxes  were  tried  and  sometimes  a 
booty  pulled  off.  But  these  things  were  carefully  graded, 
and  generally  justice  was  done.  The  man  got  his  five  or 
his  seven  years  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  came  out  without 
bearing  any  great  animosity  toward  the  man  who  had  only 
beaten  him  at  his  own  game.  But  how  often  during  these 
twenty-five  years  have  you  seen  the  black  flag  rise  over  the 
Calton  at  eight  o'   the  morning,  as  you  used  to  do  every 

81 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

three  weeks  in  the  bad  old  days?  That  was  Henderland 
— only  Henderland — nothing  but  Henderland!" 

"  Maybe — maybe,"  said  Mr.  Rodgers,  "  but  I  for  one 
am  for  no  bargainings  with  evil,  not  if  the  black  flag  were 
to  go  up  every  morning  regular  as  breakfast  rolls.  I  think 
you  go  on  a  wrong  principle  altogether,  Molesay.  You 
know  the  text — '  that  the  man  of  God  may  be  perfect, 
thoroughly  furnished  unto  all  good  works.'  Nothing  else 
will  be  of  the  least  use." 

"  God  help  my  little  crowd,  then,"  groaned  Molesay ; 
"  they  are  imperfect  enough,  even  as  I  am.  Rodgers,  I 
hold  rather  with  that  disciple  who  said,  '  Lord,  are  there 
few  that  be  saved  ? ' — hoping,  like  him,  that  there  may  be 
many." 

"  Yes,"  said  Rodgers,  "  and  you  would  be  snubbed  like 
him  and  told  to  attend  to  your  own  case — '  Strive  ye  to 
enter  in  at  the  strait  gate!  '  was  all  he  got!  " 

"  Well,  well — I  haven't  time  to  think  of  my  wretched 
self,"  said  Molesay.  "  I  have  been  so  long  on  the  front 
fighting  line.  This  constant  forlorn-hope  business  gives  a 
fellow  little  time  to  think  of  drill — though,  doubtless,  drill 
helps  to  carry  him  through.  Man,  Rodgers,  I  declare  I 
don't  even  pray  very  much  now.  Shocking,  isn't  it?  I 
haven't  time.  But  for  all  that,  I  can  understand  that  fel- 
low who  sends  his  electricity  into  space,  on  the  chance  that 
some  one  will  hear  his  cry  for  help.  So,  when  I  get  quite 
heartsick  with  the  squalor  and  the  misery  and  the  crime, 
which  none  regards  (not  even,  to  all  appearance,  God  Him- 
self), I  send  my  cry  up  between  the  darkening  roofs  toward 
the  sky  and  the  stars.  Let  Him  answer — if  He  will.  He 
is  far  away,  and,  with  the  press  of  universes,  has  doubtless 
many  claims.  But  I — I  myself — Rodgers,  have  these  poor 
creatures  before  me  and   behind — a  barman  whom  all  the 


ARCHBOLD    MOLESAY,    CITY    MISSIONARY 

world  thinks  a  brute — I  see  him  growing  like  Him  of 
Nazareth,  even  while  his  hands  are  on  the  beer  pull. 
'  Impossible ! '  you  say.  '  No  Christian  can  be  a  barman ! 
He  would  break  stones  first!  '  Well,  you  do  not  know 
Billy  Earsman,  the  bully  at  Ogg's  Imperial  Palace,  that's 
all!" 

"Ogg's — that  dreadful*  place  at  the  Wynd  corner! 
Ogg  has  been  up  half  a  dozen  times  for  keeping  open  after 
hours!  "  cried  Mr.  Rodgers,  horrified.  "  Surely  you  cannot 
defend  him?  " 

"  Perhaps  I  might  have  something  to  say  even  for  Ogg, 
King  of  Imperial  Bashan,"  smiled  Molesay,  "  but  it  is  of 
Billy  Earsman,  his  barman,  that  I  am  speaking.  He  has  a 
fight  to  fight  that  I  am  trying  to  give  him  a  hand  with — 
a  dead  baby — a  wife,  pretty,  young,  and  fretting  herself 
into  drink.  I  have  no  time  to  instruct  him  in  all  the  law 
and  the  prophets.  But  he  makes  his  morning  and  evening 
sacrifices  all  the  same.  In  the  morning  he  tells  his  wife 
that  she  is  looking  better,  younger,  bonnier  every  day,  that 
she  sings  more  sweetly;  and  in  the  evening  he  comes  home 
early,  and  washes  up  to  take  her  a  walk  in  the  park  or  to 
the  Botanical  Gardens.  Or,  in  the  winter,  he  comes  to 
our  choir  practices  to  hear  his  wife  sing.  And  to  tell  you 
the  truth,  Rodgers,  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  see  much 
difference  between  the  beer  pull  at  Ogg's  and  the  servants 
filling  the  wine  jars  at  Cana  of  Galilee!  " 

"  Molesay,  this  is  sheer  blasphemy!  "  cried  the  minister 
of  the  Peden  Memorial  Kirk. 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  Molesay,  smiling  and  nodding  his 
meek  little  silver}'  head,  the  best  known  in  all  the  quarter 
of  the  Cowgate,  "  I  hope  not.  But  I  and  mine  are  a  feeble 
folk — like  Peter,  we  follow  afar  off." 

"Ah!"  said  Mr.  Rodgers  sharply,  "and  you  know 
83 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

what  Peter  did  just  after  that — he  denied  his  Master  three 
times!  " 

"So  he  did — so  he  did,"  said  the  gentle  little  man; 
"  but  when  all  is  said  and  done,  he  followed,  didn't  he — 
when  all  the  rest  forsook  Him  and  fled?  That  was  always 
something,  wasn't  it,  Rodgers?" 

"D'ye  mean  to  say — ?"  began  the  pastor. 

Mr.  Molesay  held  up  his  hand. 

"  I  mean  to  say  nothing,  Rodgers,  except  that  once  a 
certain  Master  of  the  house  of  whom  you  have  heard  was 
angry,  and  He  said  to  His  servants,  '  Go  forth  quickly  into 
the  streets  and  the  lanes  of  the  city,  and  bring  in  hither  the 
poor  and  the  maimed  and  the  halt  and  the  blind — and 
go  into  the  highways  and  the  hedges  and  compel  them  to 
come  in.  For  none  of  those  men  that  were  bidden  shall 
taste  of  my  supper.'  " 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  between  the  two  men,  so 
different  in  head,  so  one  in  heart.  It  was  broken  by  Mr. 
Molesay  asking  when  Mr.  Rodgers  could  come  and  talk 
to  "  his  folk,"  and  the  pair  of  them  began  settling  en  the 
following  Thursday  at  eight,  immediately  after  the  magic 
lantern.  Then  he  (Rodgers)  would  hear  Kate  Earsman 
sing,  and  meet  another  little  kid  of  the  goats,  name  not 
specified.  Notebooks  were  produced,  entries  were  made, 
hands  were  shaken,  and,  after  all,  the  two — sturdy  Cal- 
vinist  and  mere  laborer  in  hope — parted  in  a  mild,  kindly 
atmosphere  of  mutual  tolerance,  if  not  of  understanding. 

And  Mr.  Rodgers,  left  alone,  continued  to  look  out  of 
the  little  oriel  window,  and  say  over  and  over  Molesay 's 
last  phrase.  It  haunted  him  like  an  echo:  "A  kid  of  the 
goats" — "A  kid  of  the  goats!"  Where  had  he  heard 
it?  Ah,  he  had  it.  He  had  not  looked  into  Arnold's  poems 
since  he  was  a  young  and  enthusiastic  lad,  with  his  beliefs 

84 


ARCHBOLD    MOLESAY,    CITY    MISSIONARY 

not  yet  crystallized  into  a  system,  and  squared  to  a  chalk 
line.  The  book  was  dusty.  It  was  the  small  green-cloth 
Golden  Treasury  volume  of  selections,  every  page  minted 
gold  to  many  a  heart  that  was  young  in  the  later  seventies. 
Rodgers  ran  his  fingers  over  the  pages,  getting  glimpses  as 
he  went  of  unforgotten  lines  and  phrases,  yet  not  pausing 
till  he  came  upon  the  great  sonnet  of  which  this  is  the  title: 

THE    GOOD    SHEPHERD    WITH   THE    KID 

"He  saves  the  sheep,  the  goats  he  doth  not  save  f" 
So  rang  Tertullian's  sentence,  on  the  side 
Of  that  unpitying  Phrygian  sect  which  cried: 

"Him  can  no  fount  of  fresh  forgiveness  lave 
Who  sins,  once  washed  by  the  baptismal  wave — " 

So  spake  the  fierce  Tertullian.      But  she  sighed, 
The  infant  church!      Of  love  she  felt  the  tide 
Stream  on  her  from  her  Lord's  yet  recent  grave. 
And  then,  she  smiled.      And  in  the  Catacombs, 
With  eyes  suffused,  but  heart  inspired  true, 
On  those  walls  subterranean,  where  she  hid 
Her  head  'mid  ignominy,  death,  and  tombs, 
She  her  Good  Shepherd's  hasty  image  drew — 
And  on  his  shoulders — not  a  lamb — a  kid ! 


"  It's  rank  Armenianism — and  the  source — suspect,"  said 
Rodgers,  putting  the  book  thoughtfully  back  on  its  shelf. 
"  But,  after  all,  I  don't  know  but  what  I  believe  it.  '  Not 
a  lamb — a  kid  I ' J  He  quoted  the  words  over  and  over 
as  he  went  downstairs.  So  much  so  that  his  wife,  busily 
cutting   up  the  portions   for  the  children,   and   for   several 

85 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

indigent  waiters  at  the  back  door,  wrinkled  an  already  suffi- 
ciently worried  brow  at  him,  and  asked  him  what  he  was 
muttering  about. 

"  A  kid  of  the  goats !  "  he  said  absently. 

Now  Mrs.  Rodgers  had  no  sympathy  with  philosophic 
abstractions. 

"  Serve  the  gravy,  and  say  grace,"  she  said  curtly. 
'  The  children  are  waiting,  and  Johnny  will  be  late  for 
school !  " 

As  for  Mr.  Molesay,  he  went  southeastward  in  the  di- 
rection of  Hagman's  Close.  The  sight  of  his  rain-battered 
soft  hat,  a  little  greener  at  the  brim,  especially  at  the  place 
where  the  drip  ran  down,  the  streaky  gray  hair  shining 
aureole  wise  beneath  it,  the  bent  shoulders,  the  eager,  search- 
ing face  drew  many  a  hard  countenance  to  the  window, 
lifted  many  a  greasy  cap  as  Mr.  Molesay's  quick,  kindly 
eyes  glanced  this  way  and  that,  missing  nobody,  yet  forcing 
attentions  on  nobody. 

The  Knifer,  going  toward  "  Blind  Jacob's "  with  a 
harmless-looking  package  in  brown  wrapping  paper,  knew 
as  well  that  the  little  city  missionary  would  not  stop  him,  as 
Jock  Cockpen,  leather  aproned  to  the  chin,  and  all  a  smutty 
grin  above,  was  certain  that  he  would  pop  in  and  confide  a 
feeble  white  palm  with  long  fingers  that  trembled  a  little  into 
Smith  Jock's  big  bear's-paw  grip.  For  already  the  silver- 
headed  little  man  was  on  Jock's  trail.  He  knew  he  had 
been  often  in  doubtful  society  of  late.  But  for  all  that, 
he  never  once  "  let  on  "  to  Jock  that  he  did  not  consider  him 
the  shining  example  of  all  his  Bible  class. 

"How  d'ye  do,  Master  Molesay?"  cried  Ashbucket 
Moll.  "  And  a  blessin'  is  what  I  ask  from  your  river- 
ence!  " 

86 


ARCHBOLD    MOLESAY,    CITY    MISSIONARY 

Moll  was  a  Catholic,  and,  as  usual  with  her  at  this 
hour,  partly  in  liquor. 

"  I  am  no  '  reverence,' "  said  Mr.  Molesay,  stopping 
and  smiling,  "  and  I  am  not  of  your  faith.  You  must  go 
to  Father  McAinsh  for  your  blessing!  " 

"And  a  good  man!"  said  Moll  stoutly,  balancing  her- 
self— her  back  burden  of  old  clouts,  cabbage  hearts,  and 
cigar  ends  shedding  a  mild  but  quite  perceptible  fragrance 
around — "a  good  man  and  a  good  priest,  sir!  But  your 
riverence  is  the  Howly  Pether  av  them  all,  bless  your  nice 
frosty  poll!  Ye  are  at  it  night  an  day,  Sunday  an'  Sat- 
urday! No  chick  nor  child  have  ye,  but  only  us.  And  if 
they  won't  let  ye  into  Paradise  for  a  saint — account  o'  bein' 
a  Protestant  born — faith,  then  /  won't  go  neither!  No, 
not  a  fut — nor  anny  good  Kyatholic  in  the  Cowgate!  Sorra 
a  one,  sorr!  They  may  whistle  for  us.  We  will  come 
along  down  there  wid  you,  that  we  will.  An'  maybe  that 
will  shame  thim  up  there  wid  their  kays  an'  their  harps 
an'  their  howly  wather !  " 

"Thank  you — thank  you!"  said  Mr.  Molesay  smiling, 
for  he  knew  the  genuine,  even  when  it  spoke  with  gin  load- 
ing its  breath. 

"  And  now,  your  riverence — the  blissin',  an'  let  poor 
ould  Ashbucket  Moll  be  goin' !  " 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  call  me  that!  "  said  Mr.  Mole- 
say gently ;  "  Father  McAinsh  might  not  like  it,  and  I  have 
no  claims!  " 

"  Maybe  ye  have  never  been  promothed  to  be  a  bishop 
— though  it's  the  fine  man  ye  wud  look  in  the  purple  an' 
goold  yoursilf,  sorr — entoirely.  But  it's  the  heart  that 
make  us  riverend  or  unriverend.  And  by  the  powers,  it's, 
archbishop  kyardinal  ye  should  be,  sorr!  And  ye  will  never 
let  a  poor  ould  sinful  woman  go  without  a  wurrd  or  two 

87 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

o'  the  howly  Latin!  It'll  do  me  good,  sorr.  I'll  not  touch 
a  dhrop  this  day  after  ye  have  blessed  poor  ould  two  fathom 
o'  soapsuds,  that's  not  long  for  this  wurrld.  Say  the  prayer, 
sorr — in  the  howly  Latin !  " 

Mr.  Molesay,  eager  as  ever  to  meet  each  soul  with  its 
appropriate  medicine,  said  sharply,  "  If  I  do,  then  you  prom- 
ise on  your  immortal  hope  that  you  will  not  taste  another 
drop  before  Saturday  night!" 

He  knew  it  was  useless  to  bargain  for  more. 

"  Never  a  dhrop — shall  pass  thim  lips,  on  the  hope  of 
mercy!  "  cried  Moll  eagerly. 

Mr.  Molesay  blushed  a  little,  and  glanced  every  way 
to  see  that  none  observed  them  too  closely. 

"  This  calling  of  mine  brings  me  precious  near  lying 
sometimes!  "  he  murmured.  And  lifting  up  his  right  hand 
— for  he  knew  that  Moll  would  hold  his  best  blessings  of 
no  account  without  that — he  mumbled  hurriedly,  and  with 
a  straying  eye,  the  Lord's  Prayer  in  Greek — a  relic  of  Pro- 
fessor Blackie's  class  room. 

Poor  old  Moll  would  have  dropped  on  her  knees,  but 
Mr.  Molesay  was  already  making  off.  She  seized  his  hand 
and  pressed  it  fervently  to  her  lips. 

"  God  in  heaven's  best  blessings  on  you  for  your  kind- 
ness to  a  poor  ould  drucken  woman — "  she  cried,  "  and  in 
the  howly  Latin,  too !  " 

"What  a  deceitful  wretch  I  am!"  said  Mr.  Molesay 
to  himself  as  he  hurried  off  in  the  direction  of  Number 
Seven  Hagman's  Close.  "  But  after  all,  what  is  a  man  to 
do?     I  leave  it  to  Rodgers  himself  to  say!" 

There  was  a  quiet  little  family  party  in  full  swing, 
when,  after  having  knocked  in  vain,  Mr.  Molesay  pushed 
open  the  door  of  Number  Seven,  and  entered  the  habitation. 

The  Kid  had  been  crying.  The  tears,  as  they  followed 
88 


ARCHBOLD    MOLESAY,    CITY    MISSIONARY 

the  same  channels  down  his  cheeks,  had  gradually  hollowed 
out  the  subsoil  according  to  the  latest  geologic  theory  about 
denudation.  The  mapping  of  the  country  was  the  more 
accurate,  because  the  Kid  had  not  been  able  to  rub  his  eyes 
with  his  knuckles,  as  is  the  habit  of  gamins  of  his  age  when 
suffering  under  the  lash. 

Mad  Mag  had  shut  him  up  for  two  days  in  the  coal 
cellar,  in  the  absence  of  the  Knifer,  for  refusing  to  take  her 
to  "  Blind  Jacob's,"  where  she  suspected  her  husband  to 
be.  She  had  tied  his  hands  together  at  the  wrist  with  a 
cord,  and  passed  that  over  a  pulley  in  the  ceiling  after  the 
manner  of  Mrs.  Brownrigg's  unfortunate  apprentices.  But 
at  the  critical  moment  the  Knifer  had  come  home,  and  with 
one  slash  of  the  weapon  from  which  he  got  his  name,  he 
had  cut  down  the  Kid.  Then  quite  coolly,  but  with  the 
wicks  of  his  mouth  drawn  far  down,  and  his  lips  making 
a  mere  crack  in  cast  metal,  he  had  bidden  his  wife  to  pre- 
pare for  what  he  had  promised  her. 

Then  Mad  Mag  clung  about  the  Knifer's  knees,  crying, 
"Oh,  dinna  kill  me!  Oh,  dinna,  dinna!  I  was  only  pre- 
tendin'.  Dinna  kill  me,  Knifer!  It  was  only  because  I 
wanted  to  ken  where  ye  were!  " 

She  was  sobbing  and  crying  with  the  wild  abandon  of 
such  women,  kissing  the  Knifer's  boots,  tearing  her  hair, 
knocking  her  head  on  the  floor,  when  the  door  softly  opened, 
and,  gently  as  the  rising  of  the  morn,  the  silver  head  and 
soft  green  hat  of  Mr.  City  Missionary  Molesay  dawned 
upon  that  sordid  scene. 


89 


CHAPTER   VII 

Patricia's  burglars 

HE  Knifer  did  not  kill  her,  but  Mad  Mag 
had  the  lesson  of  her  life.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  Knifer  did  not  reform  and  become 
a  shining  example  to  the  flock  ever  after. 
Still,  no  one  said  a  word  against  little  Mr. 
Molesay,  the  city  missionary,  in  his  presence.  As  for  the 
Kid,  he  had  made  a  friend.  And  soon  he  knew  the  way, 
not  only  to  the  mission  premises,  where  he  helped  to  cut  up 
bread  and  butter,  but  also  to  the  plain  bare  apartments, 
sitting-room  and  bedroom,  of  the  missionary  himself.  It 
was  a  long  while  before  Mr.  Molesay  "  talked  good  "  to 
the  Kid.  He  preferred  rather  just  to  let  him  dodge  round 
and  pick  up  ideas. 

The  Knifer  had  been  busy  of  late.  The  "  job  "  with 
young  Duffus,  of  the  red  tie,  had  been  carried  out  to  every- 
one's satisfaction — except,  perhaps,  that  of  the  person  chiefly 
concerned — the  passive  resister,  as  it  were — the  man  whose 
safe  had  been  broken  into. 

Now  a  longer  and  more  difficult  affair  was  being  prepared. 
The  Kid  had  his  first  intimation  of  it  one  morning,  just  as  he 
was  starting  out  to  go  to  "  Blind  Jacob's."  The  Knifer  had 
lain  still  in  his  bed  that  morning,  and  ordered  his  now  ex- 
ceedingly obedient  wife  to  bring  him  his  breakfast  there. 

90 


PATRICIA'S    BURGLARS 

"  Kid,"  he  said  presently,  "  we  are  going  to  do  a  bit  of 
a  journey  to-day — you  and  me  and  Corn  Beef  Jo.  So  stay 
in  the  house  till  I  want  you!  " 

From  that  command,  of  course,  there  was  no  appeal. 
Therefore  the  Kid  stayed,  and  employed  himself  in  polish- 
ing up  the  special  set  of  tools,  which  the  Knifer  referred 
to  generally  as  his  "  bag-o'-tricks."  But  equally,  of  course, 
the  Kid  kept  speculating  where  he  was  going  and  what  he 
would  have  to  do.  He  had  heard  of  boys  being  sent  down 
chimneys,  and  getting  roasted — of  being  shot,  torn  by  dogs, 
and  maltreated  by  cruel  serving  men.  These  were  the 
bogy  tales  current  in  "  St.  Jacob's,"  in  which  the  influence 
of  the  memoirs  of  a  certain  Mr.  Oliver  Twist — who,  rightly 
or  wrongly,  was  considered  in  the  college  as  a  "  soft  " — could 
distinctly  be  traced.  These  were  to  be  bought  for  a  six- 
pence, but  it  was  the  "  classy  "  thing  to  slip  a  copy  off  the 
counter  into  one's  pocket  while  asking  the  price  of  a  two- 
shilling  Bible.  Humor  was  thus  delightfully  mingled  with 
business  training,  a  combination  much  approved  by  the  "  St. 
Jacob's  "  faculty. 

There  were  many  severely  worn  prints  in  the  usual  six- 
penny edition  of  this  classic,  but  these  had  no  success. 
Duffus,  of  the  red  tie,  who  was  dainty  in  his  apparel,  and 
fared  sumptuously — at  other  people's  expense — every  day, 
said  that  he  would  be  hanged  if  he  would  show  up  with 
such  a  set  of  sickening  toads  as  Charley  Bates  and  his  friends. 
He  turned  the  points  of  his  stand-up  collar  to  the  proper 
angle  as  he  spoke,  and  then  with  a  pink-bordered  silk  hand- 
kerchief flicked  some  grains  of  dust  from  his  patent-leather, 
buttoned  boots.  His  opinion  was  much  quoted  and  ap- 
proved in  "  Blind  Jacob's,"  while  the  childishness  of  "  fos- 
sicking "  round,  and  "  boosting "  wretched  "  wipes "  out 
of  tail-coat  pockets,  was  much  commented  on.     It  might  do 

91 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

for  Glasgow,  but — Lor'  bless  you,  at  "  St.  Jacob's,"  in  the 
acquisition  of  property,  they  could  show  you  a  trick  worth 
two  of  that. 

It  was  to  this  book — the  Knifer's  copy,  with  the  pages 
about  the  death  of  Mr.  W.  Sykes  carefully  torn  out — that 
the  Kid  presently  betook  himself,  when  he  had  made  each 
tool  a  different-shaped  mirror.  He  wanted  instructions  how 
to  behave  when  thrust  through  a  cellar  window  at  midnight. 

But  the  Knifer's  methods  were  up  to  date,  and  had  noth- 
ing really  suspicious  about  them.  The  Kid  was  dressed 
carefully  in  a  little  ready-made  navy-blue  suit,  which  ap- 
peared mysteriously  upon  the  Knifer's  moving  his  hand  in 
the  direction  of  the  top  of  the  wardrobe,  which  was  also 
used  as  a  cupboard.  The  Kid's  mother  brought  down  a 
parcel  done  up  in  brown  paper,  with  the  utmost  precautions, 
and  this,  disemboweled  by  the  Knifer's  ready  instrument,  dis- 
gorged the  Kid's  first  new  complete  suit. 

But  there  was  no  gladness  in  it.  He  knew  very  well 
that  he  had  to  be  shot  in  the  shoulder  with  it  on,  and  so 
all  the  gladness  was  but  funeral-baked  meats  to  him.  Mc- 
Ghie's  Kid  was  a  melancholy  boy  as  he  and  Knifer,  each 
with  a  mourning  band  to  their  hard  "  bowler  "  hats,  and 
the  Kid  with  an  extra  crape  about  his  left  arm,  walked  to 
the  railway  station,  openly  in  the  heart  of  the  day.  The 
Knifer  nodded  to  several  police  inspectors  as  he  went.  It 
was  evident  that  neither  of  them  were  on  business,  for  their 
reefer  jackets  were  buttoned  so  tight  that  there  was  no  room 
for  even  the  smallest  of  "jimmies"  to  be  hidden  beneath. 

They  took  tickets  boldly  for  Glasgow,  the  Knifer  speak- 
ing in  a  loud  tone  so  that  a  robustious  man  with  a  beard 
and  the  regulation  "  dumpers  "  on  his  feet — police  boots — 
might  be  able  to  hear. 

"How  balmy!"  said  the  Knifer,  as  he  dropped  into  a 
92 


PATRICIA'S    BURGLARS 

seat,  having  watched  the  plain-clothes  man  go  off  in  the 
direction  of  the  telegraph  office;  "  how  particularly  balmy!  " 

As  they  regaled  themselves  with  an  illustrated  paper 
apiece,  their  friend  of  the  boots  strolled  negligently  by  to 
assure  himself  that  the  two  had  actually  taken  their  places 
in  the  Glasgow  train. 

"All  serene!"  said  the  Knifer  under  his  breath  as  he 
cut  into  an  apple  with  his  tobacco  blade.  "  All  these  Glas- 
gow coppers'  fault  if  they  miss  us  now!  Can't  pick  up  a 
scent  even  when  the  straight  tip  is  given  them — report  to 
Henderland,  and  go  to  sleep  with  a  good  conscience!  Have 
a  bit  of  apple,  Kid  ?  " 

But  the  Knifer  did  not  complete  his  journey  to  the 
metropolis  of  the  West.  Midway  he  changed  hastily  at  a 
quiet  junction,  and  boarded  a  south-going  train.  Curiously 
enough,  too,  the  door  of  the  compartment  opened  of  it- 
self to  receive  him,  and  the  next  moment  he  was  hauling 
up  the  Kid  after  him.  When  the  door  was  shut,  and  the 
Kid  had  time  to  look  about  him,  he  found  there  was  another 
man  in  the  compartment  besides  Knifer  Jackson.  He  was 
a  tall,  bony,  fierce-looking  fellow  with  reddish  hair,  which 
would  have  been  bristly  if  it  had  not  been  cut  so  short  that 
it  looked  rather  as  if  the  sweepings  of  some  barber's  shop 
had  been  blown  accidentally  against  a  bald  man's  pate  than 
proper  hair  grown  on  a  proper  head. 

This  man's  name,  it  soon  appeared,  was  Corn  Beef  Jo, 
owing  to  a  tale  of  his,  about  which  he  was  continually  being 
teased,  that  he  had  once  assisted  at  the  packing  of  that 
article  and  could  swear  that  it  was  all  dead  horse.  In  some 
lights  Jo  looked  so  like  a  horse  himself,  that  he  was  accused 
of  cannibalism,  and  "  Tinned  Horse  "  was  used  sometimes 
as  a  variant  of  his  better-known  name. 

But  you  needed  to  be  something,  or  rather,  a  great  deal 
93 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

of  a  fighter,  indeed,  before  you  dared  to  jest  with  "  Corn 
Beef  "  about  his  cognomen. 

"  Joseph  Mitchelson  is  my  name,"  he  would  say,  clos- 
ing a  fist  like  a  fair-sized  parcel-post  packet  of  bones,  cov- 
ered with  chapped  skin,  "  and  I'll  drive  in  the  face  of  the 
man  that  calls  me  anything  else !  "  The  Kid  was  very  care- 
ful to  call  this  gentleman  "  Mr.  Joseph  Mitchelson  "  at  full 
length,  till  the  Knifer  told  him  that,  being  among  friends, 
the  gentleman  would  be  content  with  "  Jo,"  quite  short. 

So  in  this  fashion  they  traveled  on  for  some  hours. 
At  two  several  junctions  they  changed  again  into  side 
trains,  always  in  haste  and  always  keeping  to  the  right.  It 
was  after  the  final  change,  when  the  men  were  beginning 
to  look  out  of  the  windows  oftener  as  if  to  see  how  far  they 
had  got  on  their  way,  that  Knifer  Jackson  beckoned  the  Kid 
over  to  him  from  his  corner  seat,  at  which  he  had  been 
seated  all  day,  drinking  in  the  landscape  as  it  whirled  past 
at  varying  speeds — the  foreground  waltzing  briskly  with  the 
telegraph  poles,  the  middle  distance  sailing  majestically 
behind  like  dowagers  doing  duty  in  the  Roger  de  Coverley, 
the  far-away  hills  serenely  regardant,  like  spectators  in  the 
gallery. 

"  Kid,"  said  Knifer  Jackson,  "  ye  ken  what  for  ye  are 
here?" 

"  Aye,"  said  the  Kid,  suddenly  struck  down  to  the  dis- 
mal earth,  "  to  get  shot  through  the  shoother!  " 

"Nonsense!"  said  the  Knifer  hastily;  "there's  none  of 
that  nowadays.  Listen !  At  the  place  we  are  comin'  to 
there's  a  big  house,  and  in  that  house  there's  a  rich  old  ras- 
cal whose  money  does  no  good  to  anybody.  To-day  he  will 
be  busy  gettin'  in  his  rents,  and  by  the  time  he  has  them 
finished  and  the  receipts  written,  he  will  be  ower  late  to 
bank  the  money.    The  servants  at  his  house  are  at  the  sea- 

94 


PATRICIA'S    BURGLARS 

side  with  the  family.  There  will  be  nobody  in  the  big  house 
but  the  fat  man  and  his  housekeeper.  He  will  dine — that 
is,  take  his  dinner — at  seven  exact.  The  housekeeper  will 
wait  on  him.  The  rent  money  will  be  left  locked  in  the 
safe  in  his  study,  as  he  calls  it.  Then  what  you  have  to  do, 
Kid,  is  just  this:  Opposite  the  door  of  the  dining  room  there 
is  a  big  cupboard,  and  the  door  is  back  in  a  recess.  You  are 
to  walk  right  in  at  the  front  door  of  the  house,  and  wait  in 
the  hall  till  ye  hear  folk  talking.  That  will  be  the  house- 
keeper serving  the  rich  old  sinner  with  his  dinner.  Then 
up  along  the  passage  wi'  you !  The  carpet's  thick,  and  your 
feet  will  never  be  heard.  There  will  be  not  a  soul  to  see 
you,  with  the  housekeeper  busy  serving  her  vegetables. 
Then  into  the  cupboard  as  if  ye  were  diving  into  water.  And 
through  the  crack  ye  will  see  all  that  is  going  on.  As  long 
as  the  two  go  on  serving  and  eating — do  nothing.  Jo  and 
me  will  be  busy  with  our  own  affairs  upstairs.  But  if  the 
rich  old  fellow  rises  to  come  upstairs  before  he  has  had  his 
cup  o'  coffee  and  washed  his  fingers  in  a  glass  bowl,  give 
three  knocks  on  the  big  brass  gong  that  hangs  on  a  stand 
just  outside  the  cupboard,  and  bolt  out  at  the  front  door! 
Mind  and  keep  to  the  left,  close  by  the  wall — the  rest  of 
the  grass  will  be  wired !  " 

The  Kid  nodded  as  Knifer  Jackson  slowly  told  off  point 
by  point  his  instructions.  The  routine  was  quite  familiar  to 
him,  thanks  to  his  course  of  instruction  at  "  Blind  Jacob's." 
The  object  was,  of  course,  not  his  business.  He  would  have 
no  share  in  that,  and  he  felt  no  pity  for  the  rich  old  hunks 
who  was  sitting  hatching  out  his  rents  in  a  lonely  house. 
Mr.  Molesay's  instructions  had  not  yet  worked  so  far  in. 
Deep-soil  plowing  had,  as  one  might  say,  yet  to  be  begun 
with  the  Kid. 

They  disembarked  at  a  station.  Something  familiar 
95 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

struck  the  Kid,  but  in  the  hurry  of  the  moment  he  could 
not  say  what  it  was.  But  a  horse  in  a  yellow  van,  holding 
down  its  head  with  a  tired  look,  seemed  somehow  not  un- 
known, likewise  a  step  to  an  omnibus  which  had  been 
twisted  and  mended  on  the  skew. 

His  head  was  still  spinning  with  the  fast  travel,  or  he 
would  have  recognized  his  native  town,  even  before  Bob 
Cochrane,  the  big,  hale  porter,  went  along  the  carriages,  cry- 
ing, "Kirkmessan — Kirk-messan!  Passengers  change  here 
for  Cauld  Kill,  Caulder,  Shiverton,  and  Portnessock !  " 

This  is  curious,  but  a  fact.  You  see  it  was  the  first 
time  that  the  Kid  had  ever  traveled  by  rail,  which  has  a 
singularly  mixing  effect  upon  the  young;  besides  which  the 
Kid  was  not  thinking  that  one  could  get  from  Hagman's 
Close  to  Kirkmessan  by  rail  in  a  day.  He  had  trudged  it 
weary  foot,  taking  weeks  and  weeks  to  do  it  in. 

Then  all  at  once  he  had  a  lightning  stroke.  The  rich  old 
man  with  the  rents  could  be  no  one  else  but  Mr.  Brydson 
McGhie,  Patricia's  father — also  Marthe's — therefore  the 
owner  of  the  garden  house,  where  he  had  been  tended  and 
cured,  where  he  had  had  a  real  college  doctor  to  attend  him, 
and  nobody  the  wiser.  No,  he  could  not  do  this  thing.  But 
how  to  help  it. 

He  saw  Gregg's  boy.  Ah !  now  he  remembered — it  was 
the  baker's  white  horse  he  had  seen  holding  low  its  weary 
head  between  the  shafts  and  breathing  on  the  ground 
between  its  feet.  Gregg's  boy  had  been  no  great  friend  of 
his,  but  very  likely  he  would  have  forgotten  him.  The  Kid 
was  now  well  dressed,  and  had  on  a  mourning  band  and  a 
new  hard  hat.  He  would  never  be  taken  for  Kid  McGhie 
of  the  Back  Mill  Lands.  He  searched  his  pockets  for  the 
shilling  the  Knifer  had  given  him  that  morning. 

Slipping  off  a  moment  while  Knifer  Jackson  and  Corn 
96 


PATRICIA'S    BURGLARS 

Beef  Jo  were  busy  with  their  "  luggage,"  he  ran  to  Gregg's 
boy. 

"  Hae,"  he  said,  shoving  the  shilling  into  his  hand,  "  run 
to  McGhie's  big  hoose — Balmaghie  they  caa'  it — as  hard  as 
ye  can.  See  McGhie  himsel',  and  bid  him  to  run  quick  to 
the  bank  wi'  his  rent  money " 

He  got  no  time  to  say  more,  for  Corn  Beef  Jo  had  him 
by  the  collar  and  was  leading  him  past  the  ticket  collector, 
in  whom,  with  another  shock,  he  recognized  a  soft-faced  boy 
called  "  Soda  Bannocks,"  whom  he  had  often  stoned  for 
that  very  reason. 

However,  he  saw  Gregg's  boy,  after  looking  about  him 
and  scratching  his  head  awhile,  suddenly  jump  on  the  box 
of  the  old  dusty  van  and  whip  up  the  white  horse  to  an  ex- 
cited and  spasmodic  three-legged  trot  in  the  direction  of  the 
eligible  suburban  residence  of  P.   Brydson  McGhie,   Esq., 

J.  P. 

The  Kid  watched  Gregg's  boy  out  of  sight,  and  then 
drew  a  long  breath. 

"  I'm  a  '  split,'  "  he  said,  sighing,  "  but  it  was  for  yon 
lass's  sake !  " 

"  Yon  lass  "  meant  Patricia  McGhie — her  and  no  other. 

The  voice  of  Jo,  the  "  Tinned  Horse,"  awoke  him 
startlingly.  "  What  were  you  saying  to  that  boy  when  I 
came  up?  "  he  demanded. 

"  I  was  askin'  him  at  what  time  the  banks  closed  here," 
he  answered,  "  and  if  they  took  siller  after  hours." 

The  Knifer  laughed  commendingly. 

"  That's  right,  Kid,"  he  said,  nodding  his  head,  "  always 
try  to  do  a  little  business  on  your  own  account.  But  I  fear 
you  will  have  to  leave  the  Kirkmessan  banks  for  another 
time.  But  I  say — what  ambition  these  young  shavers  have 
got!     It's  '  Blind  Jacob's  '  that  does  it!  " 

97 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

"  There's  no  other  way  to  get  on !  "  acknowledged  the 
"  Tinned  Horse  "  solemnly. 

"Good  evening,  gentlemen!"  said  a  clear  voice  in  net 
decided  tones  with  a  ring  of  laughter  in  them  when  Knifer 
Jackson  and  his  friend  Corn  Beef  Jo  penetrated  into  the 
"  study  "  of  Balmaghie,  the  eligible — and  so  forth — resi- 
dence of  P.  Brydson  McGhie,  Esq.,  J.  P. 

They  halted  on  the  threshold  of  the  study,  dumb  struck. 

"  Come  in — come  in!  "  said  the  voice.  "  Make  yourselves 
at  home!  "  A  tall,  black-haired,  handsome  girl,  with  merry 
eyes  and  decided  features,  was  seated  on  a  table  strewn  with 
papers — P.  Brydson  McGhie's  own  sacred  worktable.  She 
held  a  blue-covered  pass  book  in  her  hand,  and  swung  her 
legs  carelessly  to  and  fro,  the  table  being  rather  a  high  one 
to  suit  Mr.  McGhie's  business  armchair. 

"  Come  straight  in  without  wiping  your  feet,  just  as  if 
the  house  was  your  own,"  said  Miss  Patricia  calmly;  "  I  am 
rather  out  of  breath,  you  see.  I've  just  been  down  to  the 
bank  with  father's  rents.  I  suppose  it  was  about  that  you 
called.  You  want  to  pay  yours,  Mr. — ah,  I  forget  your 
name.  But  really  I  can't  take  it  to-day.  Shop's  closed, 
shutters  up.     Come  to-morrow !  " 

Knifer  stood  gazing  solemnly  at  the  girl  who  thus  con- 
fronted two  princes  of  burglary  with  gay  carelessness.  He 
could  admire  and  understand  that.  The  "  Tinned  Horse," 
after  his  kind,  could  do  neither. 

"  See,  miss,"  he  said,  "  we  are  not  here  for  any  lip,  nor 
yet  to  bandy  words  hither  and  across,  but  to  get  the  money, 
and  the  money  we  must  have!  We  know  that  your  father 
has  not  had  the  time  to  put  it  in  the  bank!  " 

"  No,  he  hadn't,"  said  Pat,  with  far  less  fear  than  a 
more  advised  girl  would  have  felt  in  her  situation,  "  but 

98 


Come   in — come   in!   .    .    .   Make   yourselves   at   home! 


PATRICIA'S    BURGLARS 

/  did  it  for  him.  /  ran  through  the  plantation,  and  got 
back  here  just  in  time  to  bid  you  welcome  to  Balmaghie, 
gentlemen.  See,  here  is  the  bank  book — it  was  after  hours. 
But  the  clerks  were  balancing,  and  Mr.  Macduff  is  a  friend 
of  mine — or  would  like  to  be — so  he  took  the  money,  and 
signed  for  it  readily  enough.  You  can  look  for  yourselves. 
The  ink  is  hardly  dry  yet.  But  you  can  have  my  Water- 
bury  watch,  and  all  I  have  in  my  pockets.  It's  only  about 
three  and  sixpence — gloves  come  dreadfully  expensive  when 
you  like  them  with  four  buttons " 

"  That's  enough,  shut  up !  "  said  Corn  Beef  Jo,  black 
with  wrath  at  being  foiled.  "  See  here,  young  lady,  you 
may  think  you  are  very  clever;  but  if  we  don't  get  the 
money,  or  something  worth  our  time  and  expense,  it  will  be 
the  worse  for  you!  " 

"  Ah,  so — "  said  Pat  McGhie,  "  now,  that's  not  polite. 
And  I  don't  think  the  other  gentleman  will  uphold  you  in 
that,  but,  just  in  case " 

She  stretched  out  her  right  hand  very  slightly  to  a 
pigeon  hole,  and  lifted  her  father's  4.8  revolver.  It  was  a 
Webley,  and  reliable. 

"Nice  gun,  isn't  it,  gentlemen?"  she  said,  toying  with 
it.  "  Continuous  fire,  self-ejector  pattern,  blunt-nose  bul- 
lets, warranted  dum-dum,  excellent  stopping  power.  My 
brother  Gilbert  taught  me  to  use  it  last  holidays  down  in 
the  glen." 

And  she  cocked  the  weapon  with  a  knowing  overlift  of 
her  thumb,  familiar  to  the  initiated. 

"  Nice  easy  trigger,  too.  Gilbert  eased  it  for  me  to  help 
my  scoring.  I  can  put  all  six  in  a  watch  case  at  fifteen 
yards — that's  lady's  distance,  you  know." 

The  Knifer  laughed  suddenly  aloud.  Something  had 
stirred  his  sense  of  humor. 

99 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

"  Hands  up,  Jo,"  he  said;  "  she  takes  us.  And  Lor',  it's 
worth  it!     I  never  saw  a  girl  like  you." 

"No  more  did  I!"  said  Pat  McGhie.  "I've  often 
remarked  as  much  myself." 

"  But  now,"  said  the  Knifer,  "  now  you've  got  us  here, 
and  the  door  shut,  what  do  you  mean  to  do  with  us?  Not 
the  police,  eh?  'Cause  we  would  have  to  make  a  rush  for 
it  then,  Webleys  or  not!  " 

"  Any  more  of  you  ?  "  said  Pat  easily,  as  if  she  could 
have  undertaken  all  "  St.  Jacob's." 

"  Only  a  little  'un  below,"  said  the  Knifer;  "  a  boy,  in 
the  cupboard  opposite  the  dining-room  door,  wondering  what 
the  mischief  is  up." 

Never  a  muscle  of  Pat  McGhie's  face  betrayed  that  she 
was  not  surprised  at  what  she  heard.  The  youth  from 
Gregg's  had  described  the  small  sturdy  boy  in  the  bowler 
hat  with  the  mourning  band  round  his  arm.  But,  of  course, 
that  had  conveyed  nothing  to  her  as  to  the  identity  of  her 
friend  and  ally. 

"  Well,"  said  Patricia,  "  I  don't  know  that  there's  much 
in  the  house  you  would  care  about.  All  the  folk — and  all 
the  silver — are  down  at  the  seaside.  But  if  you  will  let 
bygones  be  bygones — why,  I'll  see  what  I  can  do  for  you 
in  the  way  of  supper.  And  as  your  bags  look  somewhat 
heavy,  I'll  drive  you  over  to  the  station  in  time  for  the  late 
train  back  to  town — the  boat  train,  you  know." 

Knifer  Jackson  burst  into  another  approving  chuckle  of 
laughter. 

"  Well,  if  you  aren't  a  fair  good  plucked  one,"  he  said. 
"  I've  seen  some  in  my  time,  but  never  one  that  could  sit 
there  picking  her  teeth  and  holding  up  a  couple  of  first-flight 
classy  '  breakers ' !  Oh,  what  would  they  say  at  '  Blind 
Jacob's'?" 

100 


PATRICIA'S    BURGLARS 

"  If  my  sister  Marthe  had  been  at  home,"  said  Patricia, 
with  a  little  smiling  toss  of  her  pretty  black  head,  "  she 
would  have  talked  to  you  properly,  I  daresay — shown  you 
what  bad,  bad  men  you  were,  and  all  that.  But  I  suppose 
you  know.  At  any  rate,  you  didn't  come  down  here  to  be 
told,  did  you?  " 

"  Well,"  said  the  Knifer  grinning,  "  I  think  we  can 
get  on  without  the  sermon!  " 

"  Oh,  /  won't  bother  you,"  said  Pat  McGhie,  swinging 
herself  to  the  ground.  "I'll  feed  you,  though!  Where's 
the  little  one  you  spoke  about?  " 

The  Knifer  opened  the  door  and  called  up  the  aston- 
ished Kid,  who  came  trembling,  not  knowing  what  might 
await  him  in  the  study. 

"  Well,  young  'un,"  said  Patricia,  not  the  quiver  of  an 
eyelash  revealing  that  she  recognized  her  former  patient  of 
the  garden  house,  "  you  have  made  a  nice  start  in  life.  But 
never  mind,  you  won't  be  any  the  worse  of  a  good  supper. 
Here,"  she  cried,  suddenly  tossing  the  revolver  on  the  shelf, 
"  I  can't  cook  a  supper  with  deadly  weapons  getting  into  the 
frying  pan.  Look  me  in  the  eye,  you  three.  Now,  I  have 
dispensed  with  my  revolver,  and  have  no  weapon  concealed 
about  my  person  more  deadly  than  a  hairpin.  So  pile  your 
armory  behind  the  door  there,  if  you  please." 

"  We  have  nothing  but  a  knife  apiece,"  said  the  hero  of 
that  weapon,  drawing  his  renowned  blade.  Sulkily,  Jo  pro- 
duced his.  Patricia  glanced  at  them  without  in  the  least 
knowing  what  historical  weapons  she  was  privileged  to  look 
upon. 

"  Oh,  these  little  things !  "  she  said  carelessly ;  "  better 
keep  them  for  slicing  the  ham.  Besides,  I  am  not  sure  how 
much  of  the  kitchen  cutlery  we  shall  find  unlocked,  and  we 
may  need  to  eat  with  these  and  our  fingers.     We  will  just 

101 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

have  to  scratch  for  it.    You  see  you  did  not  send  me  word 
you  were  coming." 

And  with  these  words,  she  turned  her  back  on  the  aston- 
ished three  and  marched  downstairs  into  the  kitchen.  In  a 
few  minutes  she  had  Knifer  set  to  slicing  bacon.  Jo  was 
lighting  the  fire — which,  like  himself,  was  sulky — while  the 
Kid  cut  and  buttered  bread  as  fast  as  his  arms  would  work. 
Patricia  superintended,  occasionally  rattling  bottles  in  the 
cellar,  and  every  now  and  then  skipping  in  upon  them  to 
see  that  they  kept  steadily  to  their  work. 

The  Knifer,  with  the  pleasantest  lurking  smile  upon  his 
lips  that  the  Kid  had  ever  seen  there,  regarded  Jo.  He  felt 
the  need  of  winking  at  somebody  in  a  confidential  manner, 
but  finding  Jo  still  morose,  he  bestowed  it  upon  the  Kid, 
who  beamed  with  pleasure.  Somehow  his  message  via 
Gregg's  boy  had  turned  out  for  the  best  for  all  parties  con- 
cerned— if  even  the  Knifer  appeared  pleased. 

It  was  a  meal  never  to  be  forgotten.  Patricia,  a  rose  in 
her  dark  hair  to  do  honor  to  the  occasion,  and  a  jest  even  for 
stubborn  Jo,  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table  and  passed  the 
viands.  The  servants'  cutlery  was  found  to  be  indeed 
locked  up,  but  with  a  condescending  twinkle  the  Knifer  him- 
self stepped  to  the  drawer  which  Patricia  was  shaking  with 
a  pretty  pettish  spite.     He  drew  something  from  his  pocket. 

"Click!"  Metal  just  touched  metal.  No  more — and 
yet  the  drawer  was  open. 

"  Why,"  cried  Patricia  indignantly,  "  you  had  the  key 
in  your  pocket  all  the  time  and  never  told  me !  " 

Which  appeared  so  funny  to  the  somber  Jo  of  the 
"  Tinned-Horse "  visage  that  he  haw-hawed  out  loud, 
touched  for  the  first  time  by  the  humor  of  the  feast.  Al- 
together it  was  gay,  and  the  Knifer  sang  "  My  Pretty  Jane  " 
with  many  quaint,  old-fashioned  gestures. 

102 


PATRICIA'S    BURGLARS 

"  It's  rather  like  Sims  Reeves's  style,  I've  been  told  " — 
then  he  added  candidly,  "  heard  through  a  telephone,  I 
mean ! 

"  And  now,  gentlemen,"  said  Patricia,  "  I  must  leave 
you  to  lock  up  the  cutlery  and  wash  the  dishes.  There's 
nothing  in  the  house  I  can  offer  you  for  a  souvenir,  unless 
you  each  take  a  marble  timepiece.  Everything  is  at  the 
seaside  or  at  the  bank.  Most  unfortunate,  isn't  it?  This 
young  man  and  I  will  go  and  yoke  up  the  dogcart,  and  I'll 
have  you  at  the  station  in  ten  minutes." 

It  says  something  for  the  Knifer  and  his  influence  over 
men  and  things  that  he  actually  kept  Jo  of  the  "  Tinned 
Horse  "  from  turning  the  house  topsy-turvy,  and  even  from 
swearing  during  Patricia's  absence. 

"  The  girl's  a  marvel,"  he  said.  "  She  has  treated  us 
square,  and  so  we've  got  to  toe  the  line  also.  Get  on  with 
the  washing  up  of  these  dishes,  Jo,  d'ye  hear?" 

Out  in  the  yard  Pat  whispered  hurriedly  to  the  Kid : 

"  Your  father — your  mother's  husband,  I  mean  ?  Can't 
you  get  away?  We  could  easily  find  you  a  place.  Of  course 
I  won't  tell  you  sent  me  word  by  that  baker  lad!  I  was 
just  in  time.  Five  hundred  and  thirty  pounds — well,  there's 
one  gold  sovereign  for  you — all  I've  got.  I'm  always  on 
the  rocks  somehow!  Anyway,  you  come  here,  and  I'll  find 
you  something  to  do.  Stand  over  there,  will  you,  Dumple, 
you  silly  old  thing! — I'm  not  a  nosebag!  " 

"Good  night — good-by!  "  she  called  to  the  men,  who 
had  asked  to  be  deposited  in  the  shadow  behind  the  big 
bridge  out  of  the  range  of  the  station  incandescents.  "  Glad 
Dumple  put  some  pace  into  it  to-night  in  your  honor. 
Glad  you  enjoyed  it." 

She  checked  herself  on  the  point  of  saying  "  Come 
again  soon !  "  and  laughed  instead. 

103 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

The  Knifer  stood  and  looked  long  after  the  vanishing 
lights  of  the  swift  dogcart  till  he  could  no  longer  see  the 
lithe,  erect  silhouette  of  the  driver. 

"  Well,"  he  said  slowly,  "  if  I  had  been  a  swell,  which 
I  ain't — if  I  had  been  a  young  fellow,  which  I  ain't — if  I 
had  been  a  single  man,  which  I  ain't — if  I  had  been  an 
honest  man,  which  I  ain't — that's  the  girl  I  would  ha' 
married!     That — and  no  other!  " 

But  Jo  of  the  horse  face  trudged,  dogged  and  sullen, 
within  the  white  gates  of  the  station,  while  the  Kid, 
very  wide  eyed,  wondered. 


104 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   PEDIGREE   MAN 

HEN  the  Kid  got  home  that  night,  under  the 
escort  of  his  stepfather,  having  at  the  same 
wayside  junction  parted  from  Jo  of  the 
"  Tinned  Horse,"  it  was  late.  The  house  was 
lit  up,  seeing  which  the  Knifer  arched  his 
eyebrows  and  cocked  his  ears  as  he  came  upstairs,  holding  by 
the  stanchioned  rope,  which  slid  greasily  through  his  fingers. 
Mrs.  "  Knifer "  Jackson  entertained  friends  unawares. 
She  had  not  expected  her  husband  home  that  night.  They 
could  hear  the  voice  of  Mad  Mag  singing,  and  at  that 
sound  the  Kid  shivered.  It  recalled  many  memories  of  the 
bad  old  days  at  Kirkmessan,  and  something,  too,  of  his  father. 
And  there  was  a  lingering  sweetness  about  that  in  spite  of 
the  fear  and  the  pain.  Mad  Mag  had  half  killed  him,  it  is 
true,  but — he  had  never  had  a  cross  word  from  his  father. 
The  Knifer  pushed  the  door  of  his  dwelling  open  with 
a  cautious  art  which  had  long  become  instinctive.  It  con- 
sisted in  carrying  the  door  forward  to  the  verge  of  the 
first  creak  swiftly  and  without  hesitation — then  stepping 
back.  But,  though  the  action  was  instinctive,  only  experi- 
ence of  the  particular  door  will  teach  you  where  it  begins 
to  creak. 

Mad  Mag  was  seated  on  one  side  of  the  table,  a  tall  cut- 
8  105 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

glass  tumbler  partly  filled  before  her,  while  a  young  man, 
who  looked  like  a  cross  between  a  groom  and  an  under- 
taker,  sat  opposite  to  her. 

The  Knifer  conveyed  his  hand  to  his  side  pocket  where 
his  knife  abode.     His  face  was  exceedingly  unpleasant  to  see. 

"Well?"  he  said,  glowering  down  upon  the  pair,  and 
upon  the  bottles  and  glasses  on  the  table  between  them, 
"didn't  expect  me  so  soon,  eh?" 

"Oh,  Knifer!"  cried  Mad  Mag,  instantly  sobered — as 
since  that  day  in  the  Hunter's  Bog  she  always  was  by  the 
steady  regard  of  her  husband — "  this  is  Alf — my  brother, 
Alf  Caigton.  He's  doing  well  in  the  historical  line.  He 
just  come  in  to  see  me  —  all  on  account  o'  David 
McGhie,  the  Kid's  own  father,  and  family  affection  and 
old  times!  " 

"  Ah,"  said  the  Knifer  dryly,  "  how  d'ye  do,  Mr.  Alf 
Caigton — glad  to  meet  you,  though  you  did  drop  in  awk- 
ward, and  things  might  'a'  turned  out  a  bit  different!  But 
all's  well  that  ends  well.    Kid,  here's  your  uncle!  " 

But  the  Kid,  with  instinctive  dislike,  edged  off.  He 
would  have  nothing  to  say  on  any  terms  to  the  brother  of 
his  mother,  Mr.  Alf  Caigton,  who,  by  his  sister's  telling, 
was  "  doing  so  well  in  the  historical  business." 

"  Ye  see,"  Mag  went  on,  "  Alf's  the  clever  one.  He 
had  more  schoolin'  than  all  the  rest  o'  us  put  together,  and 
I'm  not  sayin'  that  he  has  misused  it.  Not  that  he's  ever 
done  anything  for  his  brothers  and  sisters — but  he's  always 
done  well  for  himself — oh,  remarkable  well!  " 

"That's  to  his  credit,  anyway!"  said   the  Knifer. 

"Isn't  it?"  said  Mag,  with  a  sisterly  pride,  "an'  the 
only  one  o'  us  as  has !  " 

"  Square — or  on  the  crook,  Mr.  Alf?  "  asked  the  Knifer, 
reaching  out  for  the  bottle,  but  without  sitting  down. 

106 


THE    PEDIGREE    MAN 

"Straight!"  said  Mr.  Alf  Caigton,  "only  a  curious 
kind  o'  straight!  " 

"  U-m-m-m!  Yes!"  said  the  Knifer,  suddenly  letting 
himself  drop  into  a  chair,  "  I've  seen  them  sort  o'  straights 
afore.  There's  mostly  something  crooked  aback  o'  them. 
Well,  out  with  it,  young  fellow  —  what's  your  little 
lay?" 

"  Oh,  I'll  tell  you,"  said  Mr.  Alf  Caigton,  tugging  at 
one  of  his  sandy  whiskers,  which  he  wore  to  give  him  a 
look  of  greater  age  than  he  possessed  in  the  registrar's  books 
of  Kirkmessan.     "I'm  in  the  pedigree  business!" 

"And  what's  that?"  said  the  Knifer,  looking  at  his 
brother-in-law  over  the  top  of  his  empty  glass — "  sort  o' 
Burke-an'-Hare  lay — slug  the  people  first  and  look  up  their 
pedigrees  after!  Nice,  pleasant,  light  work  to  apprentice 
a  lad  o'  spirit  to,  eh?  " 

Mr.  Alf  Caigton  smiled  wanly.  It  appeared  that  he 
had  a  similar  fear  of  his  redoubtable  brother-in-law  to  that 
which  pressed  upon  the  spirits  of  his  sister.  "  Oh,  no,  how 
funny!  "  (He  said  "  fanny.")  "  You  have  such  a  flow  of 
spirits,  Mr.  Jackson !  " 

And  he  laughed  heartily  enough,  but  somehow  the  sound 
did  not  seem  to  come  quite  from  the  right  place.  The 
Knifer  looked  him  over,  and  mentally  arranged  that,  if 
Mr.  Alf  Caigton's  business  was  at  all  lucrative,  he  should 
have  his  "  whack  "  out  of  it.  He  knew  men  with  laughs 
like  that. 

It  could  not  be  called  a  very  roisterous  party  at  Mad 
Mag's  that  night.  Everybody  was  more  or  less  uncomforta- 
ble— except  the  Knifer,  that  is,  who  was  calculating  how 
much  Alf  Caigton  should  stand  him  in,  in  the  course  of  a 
fairly  successful   twelvemonth. 

First  of  all,  however,  he  wished  to  be  posted. 
107 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

"  Tell  us  the  truth,  mind — the  icy  truth  about  this 
pedigree  biz,"  he  said,  "  and   how  much  you  make  of  it." 

"It's  like  this,"  said  Mr.  Alf  Caigton ;  "I  can  do  a 
good  bit  with  the  pen " 

"  All  you've  got  to  do  is  to  put  a  hand-a'-write  before 
our  Alf,"  interposed  his  proud  sister,  "  the  signin'  of  a 
man's  name,  or  anything  like  that.  And  with  a  pen  in 
his  hand,  in  two  minutes  he  will  have  it  copied  that  exact 
— why,  the  man  won't  know  the  difference  himself.  It's 
been  tried !  " 

"  I  daresay  it  has,"  remarked  the  Knifer  grimly.  "  It's 
just  the  sort  o'  accomplishment  that  wouldn't  be  let  rust  in 
a  fambly  like  yours!  But  what  has  that  to  do  with  pedi- 
grees? " 

"  Oh,  just  this,"  said  Alf,  willing  to  clear  himself  from 
the  aspersions  which  a  sister's  too  eager  pride  had  caused 
to  be  cast  upon  his  commercial  integrity.  "  I  take  too 
precious  good  care  o'  my  skin  to  risk  fourteen  year  for 
forgery — a  few  years  since  it  would  have  been  something 
else—" 

"  Ah,"  said  the  Knifer,  fumbling  at  his  necktie  as  if  he 
found  it  tight,  "  the  risks  of  that  are  now  confined  to  my 
business.     It  keeps  it  more  selec'!  " 

"  Yuss,"  said  Mr.  Alf  Caigton,  "  I've  been  in  England 
a  lot,  an'  in  one  place  my  handwriting  got  me  made  secre- 
tary to  a  library,  where  there  were  piles  an'  piles  of  old 
writings,  some  of  them  near  to  five  hunder  year  old.  And 
you  wouldn't  believe  the  ugly  fists  they  wrote,  and  the 
shameful  way  they  spelt.  Now  my  girl  had  given  me  the 
heave  that  year,  and  I  wasn't  doing  much — took  no  interest 
in  going  out,  you  see.     I  never  was  a  drinkin'  man " 

"  No,  I  see  that,"  said  the  Knifer,  looking  at  the  low- 
tide  mark  in  the  rum  bottle. 

108 


THE    PEDIGREE    MAN 

"  I  wasn't  speakin'  about  my  sister,"  said  Mr.  Alf,  who 
had  followed  the  direction  of  the  Knifer's  eyes. 

His  brother-in-law  nodded  approvingly.  He  might  have 
fear  tingling  up  and  down  his  backbone,  this  pedigree  man 
— thought  the  burglar — but,  at  any  rate,  he  was  no  fool.  So 
much  the  better.     He  would  earn  more. 

"  Perceed !  "  said  Knifer  Jackson.  And  the  taleteller 
went  on. 

"  It's  likd  this,"  he  began  again,  as  if  from  the  beginning. 
"  I  learned  to  read  and  to  write  the  rubbish,  so  as  you 
couldn't  tell  the  old  from  the  new — parchments  chemically 
prepared,  loads  of  the  stuff  inside  the  covers  of  old  books. 
They  stuffed  them  like  pillows  in  them  days.  Well,  what 
I  do  now  is  to  find  a  joker  who  has  had  the  'oof-bird  come 
perchin'  on  his  rooftree,  but  hasn't  any  more  family  in  par- 
ticular than  a  stray  lurcher  dog.  Then  what  does  he  want  ? 
Why,  nine  times  out  o'  ten — pedigree!  " 

"Well,  Mr.  Jackson,  sir"  (here  Mr.  Alf  rolled  a 
cigarette  with  an  important  air  which  seemed  to  amuse  the 
Knifer  hugely),  "it  cannot  have  escaped  the  observation  of 
a  man  like  you,  that  anything  you  want  in  this  world  can 
be  had  for  money!  And  a  pedigree  is  no  exception!  None, 
sir,  none — I  assure  you.  You  can  have  it  countersigned  by 
a  Lord  Munster  King-at-Arms.  You  can  have  engravings 
done  in  his  widely  circulated  '  Visits  to  Armorial  Houses.' 
You  can  have  the  lives  of  your  progenitors  writ,  and  if 
they  was  hanged,  sir,  you  can  have  the  documents  altered 
to  say  that  they  died  at  Cressy  an'  Waterloo  fightin' 
for  their  king,  with  fifteen  French  spears  buried  in  their 
manly  bosoms!  We  sugar  it  to  taste,  sir,  an'  the  charge  is 
naturally  accordin' !  " 

The  Knifer  nodded,  watching  all  the  while  with  eager 
interest.     There  seemed,  after  all,  something  in  the  thing. 

109 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

But  what  brought  such  a  top  sawyer  as  Mr.  Alf  to  the 
humble  home  of  a  plain,  center-bit  "  breaker "  like  the 
Knifer?     That  had  still  to  be  explained. 

"  Yes,"  continued  Alf  Caigton,  now  thoroughly  at  his 
ease  in  an  atmosphere  of  what  he  took  for  admiration,  "  it 
goes  on  four  wheels,  once  you  get  a  name  for  it.  One  party 
recommends  you  to  another  as  a  sure  man  and  a  good  inves- 
tigator. Now,  I've  got  the  chief  of  a  clan  on,  no  less — a 
regular  smasher " 

"What's  his  ber-loomin'  clan?"  said  the  Knifer  scorn- 
fully. 

"  McGhie  is  his  name,"  said  Mr.  Alf,  and  then  watch- 
ing the  swift  alteration  on  his  brother-in-law's  face,  he  added 
hastily,  "  and,  indeed,  it's  on  that  account  that  I  am  here. 
It  appears  that  my  man  is  some  far-out  relative  of  David 
McGhie,  that  boy's  father,  and  that  there  were  certain 
papers  in  the  old  house  at  Back  Mill  Lands  which  would 
help  me.  This  McGhie  fool  wants  to  be  chief  of  the  name ! 
Ha,  ha!  And  he'd  pay  good  money  for  the  papers.  They 
were  in  an  old  black  box.    I  have  the  description  here." 

He  foraged  in  his  breast  pocket,  and  from  a  mass  of 
scribbled  notes  and  nondescript  material  he  produced  a 
memorandum  from  which  he  read  as  follows:  "A  small 
black  oaken  box,  clasped  with  iron,  about  one  foot  nine 
every  way,  shaped  like  a  tea  chest;  nothing  in  it  but 
papers!  " 

"  I  opened  it  with  the  coal  ax  the  night  before  I  left," 
cried  Mad  Mag,  "  and  there  was  nothing  in  it  but  papers, 
as  he  says.  I  kicked  it  to  the  back  of  the  garret.  And  it's 
there  yet,  as  far  as  I'm  concerned!  Ye  are  welcome  to  it, 
Alf!" 

"  But  not  as  far  as  /  am  concerned,"  said  the  Kid, 
coming  suddenly  into  the  circle  of  illumination  produced  by 

110 


THE    PEDIGREE    MAN 

the  lamp  on  the  table.  "  /  am  The  McGhie.  I  am  the 
chief  of  the  name.  Me  and  nae  ither!  And  the  papers  are 
mine — mine — since  my  faither  is  killed  deid !  " 

Even  as  one,  the  three  faces  were  turned  upon  him.  His 
mother's  face  wore  a  scowl  of  fury.  And  had  she  been 
alone  with  the  Kid,  it  would  have  gone  ill  with  The 
McGhie.  The  clan  might  have  required  a  new  head  in 
very  brief  space  indeed.  Mr.  Alf  appeared  all  taken  aback 
and  dumfounded.  It  was  as  if  one  had  spoken  from  the 
dead.  Only  the  Knifer's  face  wore  a  grin  of  malicious 
pleasure. 

"  Spoken  like  a  man,  young  'un !  "  he  cried.  "  I  like 
to  see  a  man  stick  up  for  his  rights.  The  papers  are  yours 
— not  a  doubt  of  it — and  if  we  had  but  thought,  a  little 
earlier  in  the  evening " 

But  he  cut  off  sharp  here.  For,  after  all,  he  did  not 
know  Mr.  Alf,  and  the  business  which  had  given  the  Kid 
and  himself  the  pleasure  of  Miss  Patricia's  society  in 
the  town  of  Kirkmessan  was  of  a  very  private  nature 
indeed. 

Mr.  Alf  smiled  a  "  wersh  "  kind  of  smile,  as  cheerful 
as  drizzling  rain  in  November. 

"  We'll  take  you  in,  then,"  he  said,  "  in  on  the  ground 
floor  too.  I  never  meant  anything  else,  of  course.  You 
and  me  will  work  as  partners.  For  this  McGhie  pedigree, 
I  have  need  of  a  smart  boy  to  open  the  doors  of  church 
vestries  where  books  are  kept,  to  lose  documents  writ  by  me, 
where  they  will  be  found  in  the  nick  o'  time — churchyards, 
too,  where  there  are  little  alterations  in  the  lettering  of 
tombstones  to  be  made — I  attend  to  that  myself  at  special 
rates.  But  I  need  a  boy  to  look  out  and  hold  the  lantern 
so  as  to  suit  the  chisel !  Now,  if  I  mistake  not,  you're  that 
boy!    I  will  give  him  a  man's  wage,  Mr.  Jackson,  and  when 

111 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

all  is  passed  the  heralds'  office,  and  my  man  pays  me,  I  will 
give  him  a  share  of  the  take !  " 

"  Very  well  said — most  liberally  and  nobly  said!  "  cried 
the  Knifer,  "  but  what  about  me  f  " 

"  You?  "  said  Mr.  Alf,  taken  very  much  aback. 

"Yes,  me!"  said  the  Knifer,  knocking  his  clinched  fist 
on  the  table  so  that  the  bottles  danced  and  the  glasses  dirled 
and  sang  against  each  other.  "  I  have  had  the  educating 
of  that  boy.  I  found  him.  I  made  something  of  him.  He 
has  been  out  with  me  at  work  this  very  day.  He  has  my 
secrets.  Such  as  they  are,  they  might  hang  a  man  or  maybe 
two.  I  cannot  let  him  go  to  another  party  without  some 
reasonable  compensation,  can  I  ?  I  put  it  to  you  as  an 
honorable  man  and  a  fair  man,  Mr.  Alf  Caigton,  is  it 
likely  that  I  will?" 

"  Well,  if  you  put  it  that  way,"  said  Mr.  Alf,  "  per- 
haps not!  But  a  boy  can't  be  worth  much  to  the  like  of 
you — a  famous  man — a  young  boy  that  doesn't  know  any- 
thing almost.  He's  not  worth  much!  And  with  me  it 
would  be  all  in  the  family,  as  it  were !  " 

"  Very  like — not  much  to  you !  "  said  the  Knifer,  "  but 
to  me  he  is  worth  gold — why,  I  picked  him  up — I  trained 
him.  What  shall  we  say,  Mr.  Alf?  Half  of  everything, 
for  me  and  the  Kid  between  us,  that  is.  And  the  other  full 
half  for  you?" 

Mr.  Alf  rose  to  his  feet,  suddenly  flushing  hot. 

"  I'll  see  you — "  he  began.  But  the  Knifer  was  too 
quick  for  Mad  Mag's  brother,  as,  indeed,  one  of  his  pro- 
fession and  attainments  would  naturally  be,  for  a  mere 
parchment  fumbler.  Something  razor  keen  and  with  a 
point  to  it  pressed  ever  so  gently  against  Mr.  Alf's  throat, 
while  the  Knifer's  left  hand  twisted  his  jaw  in  an  iron 
grasp. 

112 


THE    PEDIGREE    MAN 

"You  have  no  objections,  I  think!"  said  the  Knifer 
softly.  "  Your  sister  will  be  on  my  side,  I  feel  sure!  She 
knows  me  !  " 

"Oh,  Knifer,  for  mercy's  sake — no  bloodshed!"  cried 
Mad  Mag,  so  anxiously  that  her  brother  felt  the  sincerity 
in  her  tones,  and  knew  that  he  was  looking  out  over  the 
uttermost  verge  of  time.  Ever  after  that  he  recognized 
eternity  as  a  chill  blue  thing  which  buzzed. 

"  No,  no!  "  he  said.  "  So  it  shall  be,  then!  Half  for 
me  and  half  for  you." 

But  privately  Mr.  Alf  meant  to  do  some  very  solid 
lying  with  regard  to  his  receipts. 

"  And  mind,  no  juggling  with  the  accounts,"  said  the 
Knifer,  as  if  reading  his  thoughts,  "  for  you  can't  get  it 
off — not  safely.  You  see,  the  Kid  and  me  are  solid  with 
Miss  McGhie " 

"  Patricia,"  interrupted  the  Kid. 

"  And  we  will  find  out  to  a  farthing  how  much  her 
father  has  paid  you,  Mr.  Alf  Pedigree-Howker.  And  if 
there's  a  white  sixpence  not  accounted  for  when  we  come 
to  settle,  you'll  wish  you  had  never  been  born !  " 

On  the  whole,  the  Kid  liked  pedigree  work  better  than 
"  Blind  Jacob's."  It  was  not  that  any  moral  sense  was 
awaking  in  him,  so  much  as  that  he  was  ashamed,  in  the 
company  among  which  he  found  himself  at  Mr.  Molesay's 
mission  rooms,  to  be  thought  to  have  anything  to  do  with 
such  a  place. 

The  boys  at  Molesay's  did  not  put  on  any  "  side."  But 
somehow,  without  actual  lying,  the  Kid  began  to  deny 
his  alma  mater,  and  even,  when  he  could  hide  it  from  the 
Knifer,  to  shirk  going  there  at  all.  It  was  a  much  easier 
thing  to  say  that  his  business  was  to  go  about  and  copy  old 

113 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

inscriptions  in  churchyards.  The  question  always  followed, 
"  And  do  they  pay  you  for  that?  " 

To  which  the  Kid  could  say,  "  Oh,  yes,  a  pound  a 
week,  sure!  " 

For  that  was  the  truth,  and  carried  respect  at  the  Cow- 
gate  Molesay  Mission.  Many  full-grown  men,  carters  and 
so  forth,  did  not  make  as  much.  The  Kid  enjoyed  the 
change  in  consideration  exceedingly.  The  comment  which 
always  followed  was  this: 

"  Aye,  they  will  be  seekin'  for  hidden  treasure,  dootless 
— or  maybe — provin'  a  will !  " 

For  the  litigious  Scot  likes  nothing  so  much  as  a  wrangle 
over  a  disputed  succession.  So  the  reason  and  end  of  the 
Kid's  curious  trade  were  clear  to  them  at  once. 


114 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE   HEIRESS  ON    PROBATION 

r  was  about  this  time  that  Patricia  became 
an  heiress.  Or  if  not  an  actual  heiress,  at 
least  an  heiress  on  trial.  For  her  heiress- 
ship  was  conditional  on  her  good  behavior. 
Marthe,  who  knew  the  young  lady  better 
than  most,  said  that  if  that  were  the  condition,  she  would 
never  inherit.  The  thing,  long  pending,  at  last  happened 
thus : 

Patricia's  mother's  elder  brother  had  been  left  with  all 
the  riches  of  the  family.  He  had  married  a  partner  in  life, 
carefully  selected  for  the  purpose.  He  had  imbued  her 
with  the  idea  of  the  enormous  importance  of  continuing 
the  line  of  the  Boreham-Eghams,  but,  so  far,  with  nothing 
else.  They  were  now  two  old  people,  childless,  self-ab- 
sorbed, vegetating  in  a  large  country  house  within  twelve 
miles  of  Edinburgh. 

The  Boreham-Eghams  prided  themselves  on  having 
nothing  Scotch  about  them.  They  went  only  to  the  Eng- 
lish church.  They  frequented  only  the  exclusively  English 
society  of  the  neighborhood,  and  they  had  two  old  retainers 
in  the  very  un-Scottish  guise  of  housekeeper  and — controller 
of  the  household.  At  least  that  is  the  word  which  most 
nearly  expresses  the  fact. 

115 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

Algernon  Hammer  and  his  wife  had  begun  by  being 
simply  old  servants.  They  were  looking  forward  to  a  pen- 
sion, and  a  "  Boreham-Egham  Arms "  somewhere  in  the 
neighborhood,  when  the  increasing  willingness  of  the  old 
couple  to  be  dictated  to,  and  their  piteous  appeals  to  Mrs. 
and  Mr.  Hammer  to  continue  at  their  posts,  unconsciously 
riveted  the  chains  upon  their  aged  necks. 

After  that,  Egham  Castle  belonged  to  Mrs.  and  Mr. 
Hammer,  and  the  quaintly  preserved  old  couple  upstairs 
never  so  much  as  ventured  to  give  an  order  in  their  own 
names.  It  was,  "  Ask  Hammer  about  this."  Or,  "  I  think 
it  will  be  better  before  we  go  further  to  call  in  Mrs.  Ham- 
mer— she  is  in  the  habit  of  looking  to  such  matters  for  us !  " 

But  it  was  the  matter  of  the  heirship  that  brought  out 
the  power  of  the  Hammers  most  clearly.  It  had  often  been 
discussed,  if  one  of  the  boys  McGhie  should  not  be  brought 
from  Balmaghie  and  invested  with  the  name,  the  respon- 
sibilities, and  the  perquisites  of  the  Boreham-Eghams. 

But  when  Mr.  Boreham-Egham  had  put  this  before  his 
downstairs  lords  and  masters,  the  Hammers  had  put  the 
proposal  out  of  court  at  once.  It  was  simply  not  to  be 
thought  about.  A  boy,  indeed!  He  would  turn  all  the 
quiet  establishment  upside  down.  He  would  run  over  the 
grass.  He  could  not  be  depended  upon  to  wipe  his  feet 
upon  the  mat,  even  when  his  attention  was  called  to  the 
matter  by  a  placard  written  in  Mr.  Hammer's  own  hand. 

No,  the  Hammers  were  clear  upon  this  point.  Other- 
wise they  would  resign!  A  successor  to  the  long  De  Bore- 
ham-Egham line — the  article  now  dropped — must  be 
found.  But  a  girl,  not  a  boy.  On  that  the  Hammers  stood* 
firm,  and  the  sooner  the  two  automata  sitting  upstairs — 
"  starved  atomies  "  Mr.  Hammer  called  them,  his  own  pro- 
portions being  noways  starved — realized  that  the  better. 

116 


THE    HEIRESS    ON    PROBATION 

"  You  see,  Marigh,"  he  said,  "  It  gives  us  a  longer 
lease.  A  boy  grows  up — so  does  a  girl,  you  say.  Right, 
she  does.  But  a  boy  grows  up  into  a  young  man,  goes  to 
college,  meets  with  other  young  men,  becomes  masterful, 
and  then  any  day,  bang,  he  may  turn  us  out  of  house  and 
home." 

"  But  a  girl  might  do  just  the  same,"  said  Maria  Ham- 
mer, who  did  not  approve  of  the  younger  members  of  her 
own  sex. 

"  No — I  beg  your  pardon,  Marigh — I  don't  think  you 
quite  catch  my  point,"  said  Mr.  Hammer,  who  kept  his 
brusque  offensiveness  for  his  master  and  mistress,  "  what  I 
mean  is  this.  We  could  persuade  Master  and  Missus  not 
to  make  the  girl  the  actual  heir  of  our  estates,  till  such 
time  as  choice  had  been  made  of  a  suitable  husband  for 
the  young  person,  Marigh!     You  understand?" 

And  Mr.  Algernon  Hammer,  satisfied  with  his  own 
proposition,  squinted  down  at  the  purple  gloss  on  his  dyed 
side  whiskers,  and  smiled  cunningly  at  Marigh. 

"  I  can't  say  as  I  do,"  said  his  wife  tartly.  She  was 
a  little  skinny  woman  with  more  knuckle  bones  and  nobby 
places  about  her  visible  to  the  naked  eye  than  should  have 
been  allowed  out  of  an  anatomical  museum. 

Patricia  called  her  the  ^Eolian  harp  at  first  sight,  "  be- 
cause the  wind  would  most  assuredly  whistle  through  her 
— or  if  it  did  not,  then  the  wind  did  not  know  its  business." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Mr.  Hammer,  shutting  the  eye 
which  had  examined  the  noble  tapering  copying-ink  cone 
attached  to  his  left  cheek  and  squinting  down  the  other 
side  at  its  equally  perfect  neighbor,  "  I  will  explain,  Ma- 
righ, my  dear." 

"  If  you  would  not  look  so  like  a  blessed  Shanghai 
rooster  which  has  choked  itself  trying  to  part  its  tail  down 

117 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

the  center,  perhaps  you  might  be  able  to  do  it  easier,"  in- 
terrupted his  wife. 

"  I  will  explain,"  said  Mr.  Hammer  imperturbably. 
"  The  young  lady " 

"  Person,"  said  Mrs.  Hammer;  "  we  will  call  her  '  per- 
son,' if  you  please,  till  we  see  how  she  is  going  to  behave 
herself!" 

Person,'  then,"  amended  Hammer,  his  hand  travel- 
ing unconsciously  up  to  his  favorite  left  cone.  "  This  young 
person  would  no  doubt  attract  many  suitors,  our  estates 
being  large  and  not  involved,  thanks  to  our  fostering  care. 
A  proper  selection  would  need  to  be  made.  Now,  Marigh, 
who  do  you  think  is  to  make  that  selection?  " 

"  Why,"  said  Mrs.  Hammer,  "  I  suppose  in  these  days, 
when  there  is  no  respect  for  authority,  as  there  was  when  I 
was  young,  the — ah — person  would  expect  to  choose  for 
herself." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  cried  Controller  Hammer  triumph- 
antly. "  Not  a  single  bit.  Why,  it  'ud  be  us — you  an'  me, 
Marigh-yah !  "     And  he  slapped  his  wife  on  the  back. 

"  I  wish  you  would  keep  your  great  paviers'  jumpers 
to  yourself !  "  said  Marigh-yah  tartly.  "  Say  what  you  have 
got  to  say  without  slappin'  me  as  if  I  were  a  horse  you  were 
'  come-over-ing  '  in  the  stable!  " 

Presently,  however,  she  relented,  and  letting  her  curios- 
ity get  the  better  of  her,  said,  "  You've  some  idea,  Hammer, 
I  can  see  that.    What  is  it?     Out  with  it!  " 

"  Well,"  said  Hammer  slowly  and  almost  reluctantly, 
for  the  idea,  once  shared,  would  never  be  quite  his  own 
again,  "  we-e-11,  Marigh,  it's  this.  We  have  enough  in- 
fluence with  old  Pads-and-Puffs  up  there — you  on  your 
Fringe-Flannel-and-Slipper  side,  and  me  with  old  Stays-and- 
Chokers — to  keep  them  from  making  the  girl  the  heiress — till 

118 


THE    HEIRESS    ON    PROBATION 

the  prince  consort,  as  one  might  say,  is  chosen!  And  then 
the  man  would  be  chosen  that  would  pay  us  the  biggest 
sum  of  cash  down,  no  percentages  on  the  dowry  for  yours 
truly,  for  all  our  trouble,  and  the  comfort  of  our  declining 
years,  eh,  Marigh?  " 

Marigh  rose  and  caressed  the  nearest  tail  of  coal-black 
whisker  with  unwonted  tenderness — a  tenderness  which 
she  never  manifested  save  in  the  immediate  prospect  of  finan- 
cial advantage. 

"  You  have  a  nut,  Algy,"  she  said  tenderly,  "  I've  al- 
ways said  it — you  have  a  nut!  " 

Marigh — which  was  Mr.  Hammer's  way  of  pronounc- 
ing "  Maria  " — thought  awhile,  and  then  with  a  keen  look 
at  her  husband  she  added  her  rider. 

"  But,"  she  said,  "  first  of  all  we've  got  to  choose  the 
girl — the  girl  heiress.  And  I'll  do  the  choosing.  No  hus- 
sies in  this  house,  if  you  please!  When  you  want  to  pull 
your  coal-black  whiskers  at  anybody,  Algernon  Hammer, 
you  pull  them  at  me,  understand?" 

And  Algernon  Hammer,  with  a  sigh,  said  that  he  did — 
fully. 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  while  the  scandal  of  Patricia's 
unwarrantable  behavior  in  letting  the  burglars  escape  un- 
punished was  still  fresh  in  the  minds  of  all  the  family  of 
the  McGhies,  i.  e.,  the  younger  branch  thereof,  Mr.  P. 
Brydson  McGhie  received  a  letter  one  morning  at  the  sea- 
side which  set  him  pondering  deeply  and  with  reason. 

It  was  no  less  than  a  communication  from  Mr.  Philip 
Egbert  Egham  Boreham-Egham  of  Egham  Castle,  his 
wife's  only  brother,  saying — after  the  usual  apologies  for 
seeing  so  little  of  him  and  his  interesting  family — that  it 
was  his  intention  and  that  of  his  wife  to  leave  all  their 

119 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

estates — of  considerable  extent  and  value,  even  in  these 
times,  as  Mr.  McGhie  knew — to  one  of  his  daughters,  who, 
upon  her  marriage,  would  be  required  to  take  the  name 
and  style  of  Boreham-Egham.  It  would,  therefore,  in 
these  circumstances  give  Mr.  P.  E.  Egham  Boreham-Eg- 
ham great  pleasure  if,  in  order  the  better  to  carry  out  these 
intentions,  which  he  had  already  communicated  to  his  law- 
yer, the  three  young  ladies — he  was  informed  that  there 
were  three — would  accept  an  invitation  to  visit  Egham 
Castle  at  a  date  which  would  be  convenient  to  them.  Any 
time  would  suit  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Egham  Boreham-Egham. 
They  did  not  leave  the  castle  except  for  the  shortest  pos- 
sible periods. 

This  letter  created  great  joy  and  satisfaction  in  the 
breasts  of  both  Father  and  Mother  McGhie.  Egham 
Castle,  and  one  of  their  daughters  the  heiress  to  it,  was,  in- 
deed, a  very  different  thing  to  "  Balmaghie,"  with  double 
turned  commas.  Patrick  (J.  P.)  felt  that  these  must  be 
suppressed  at  once.  Also  the  sooner  that  his  pedigree  could 
be  put  on  a  proper  footing,  the  better.  So  that  same  mail 
that  bore  the  acceptance  of  the  Egham  Castle  invitation 
carried  a  letter  also  to  Mr.  Alfred  Caigton,  armorial  ex- 
pert, late  of  Register  Street,  Edinburgh.  The  latter  docu- 
ment was  strictly  private,  but  contained  a  wish  to  see  Mr. 
Caigton  "  in  this  part  of  the  country  with  all  documents  " 
as  soon  as  might  be  convenient,  and  the  sooner  it  was  con- 
venient the  better  worth  Mr.  Caigton's  while  Mr.  P.  Bryd- 
son  McGhie  would  be  inclined  to  make  it. 

"  The  McGhie  "  was  rising  in  the  world,  and  as  chief 
of  the  clan  and  name,  with  a  daughter  heiress  of  Egham 
Castle,  he  did  not  see  why  perhaps  the  long-dropped  title 
of  Earl  McGhie  should  not  be  revived  in  the  family. 

"  The  Earl  McGhie  of  Boreham  and  Egham  "  would 
120 


THE    HEIRESS    ON    PROBATION 

certainly  be  a  title  worth  taking  to  bed  with  one  on  winter 
nights.  It  was  a  pity,  of  course,  that  his  relative,  stupid 
old  fossil  that  he  was,  had  not  chosen  Gilbert  or  one  of 
the  boys.  But  he  was  one  of  those  fussy  old  fellows  whom 
it  was  no  use  trying  to  influence.  He  would  have  his  own 
way.  He  had  had  it  all  his  life,  and  if  he  wanted  to  adopt 
one  of  the  girls,  well,  they  were  each  of  them,  particularly 
and  severally,  at  the  disposal  of  Mr.  P.  B.  Egham  Bore- 
ham-Egham  for  the  aforesaid  purpose. 

Such  was  the  official  view  at  Balmaghie,  which  was  not 
even  damped  by  a  curious  paragraph,  added  to  the  letter  of 
invitation,  apparently  as  an  afterthought :  "  As  both  my  wife 
and  myself  are  in  a  somewhat  precarious  state  of  health,  it 
will  be  better,  if  you  think  well  of  this,  to  fix  times  and 
seasons  and  make  all  the  necessary  arrangements  with  Mr. 
Algernon  Hammer,  the  controller  of  our  household,  for 
many  years  our  faithful  and  attached  servant." 

But,  even  so,  the  White  Waistcoat  and  the  Brown  Silk 
Sack,  trimmed  with  double  ruching  and  passementerie, 
which  between  them  represented  the  observance  of  the  fifth 
commandment  to  the  three  McGhie  girls,  were  perfectly 
satisfied.  Evidently,  with  a  controller  of  the  household, 
all  things  were  done  decently  and  in  order  at  Egham 
Castle. 

Praise  be  to  Allah!  it  would  be  a  goodly  heritage. 

Such,  as  I  have  said,  was  the  view  official,  that  of  the 
study  where  the  rents  were  paid,  complaints  made,  and  loans 
adjusted,  and  of  the  large  drawing-room  where  visitors  who 
did  not  know  enough  to  ask  specially  for  "  the  young  ladies  " 
were  shown. 

Far  different  was  the  reception  of  the  news  in  the  girls' 
parlor,  in  the  schoolroom,  the  box  room,  and  generally 
wherever  the  younger  members  of  the  Clan  McGhie  were 
9  121 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

gathered  together.  Exasperation  ruled  chiefly  in  the  boys' 
minds. 

"  What,"  cried  Bob  indignantly,  "  what  would  a  pack 
of  girls  do  with  all  those  fine  shootings  and  estates  and 
wads  of  money  and  stacks  of  bank  notes?  Just  give  them 
to  some  other  fellow,  not  her  brother;  indeed,  very  likely 
no  sort  of  kin  to  her  at  all." 

This  was  so  many  different  kinds  of  shame,  that  Bob 
had  finally  to  leave  his  brothers  to  do  justice  to  the  situa- 
tion. His  vocabulary  gave  out  early.  Gilbert  proposed 
that  they  should  go  down  to  Egham  in  a  body  and  inter- 
view "  the  old  pigs."  He  referred  to  his  uncle  and  aunt. 
But  though  there  was  a  fine  manly  spirit  about  this  pro- 
posal, there  was  also  something  which  was  not — not  quite 
practical.  "  Besides,"  added  the  cunning  Gilbert,  after  he 
had  thought  the  thing  over,  "  if  Marthe  married,  it  would 
be  old  Symington,  you  know,  who  could  never  fire  a  gun, 
not  if  the  pheasants  were  rising  as  thick  as  sparrows  in  a 
barnyard." 

Such  a  brother-in-law  would  be  worth  having.  He 
would  have  all  the  swot  of  rearing  the  poultry,  and  then, 
as  for  the  shooting,  why,  the  McGhies,  Marthe's  brothers, 
would  attend  to  that. 

Atalanta  was  a  more  difficult  case.  She  was  evidently 
going  to  marry.  Fellows  were  already  inclined  to  "  go 
silly  "  over  Baby  Lant.  They  had  all  noticed  that.  Why, 
in  the  holidays,  there  was  Maurice  Benson,  the  captain  of 
the  school,  who  made  three  figures  against  the  West  of 
Scotland,  and  all  the  three  weeks  he  could  never  be  got 
to  do  a  single  thing — only  fetch  cushions  for  Baby  Lant. 
All  because  she  had  big  blue  eyes  and  was  too  lazy  to  live! 
Why,  they  had  big  blue  eyes,  too,  at  least  Bob  had,  and 
they  could  be  as  lazy  as  any  girl.     But  nobody  went  and 

\O0 


THE    HEIRESS    ON    PROBATION 

waited  hand  and  foot  on  them!  Actually  Maurice  Benson 
never  put  on  his  "  pads  "  the  whole  time  he  was  with  them. 
It  was  enough  to  disgust  three  honest,  self-respecting  boys 
for  life. 

But  "  Pat " — ah,  there  lay  their  hope!  Pat  was  a  good 
fellow.  Pat  was  all  right.  As  like  as  not  she  would  never 
get  married  at  all.  No  one  ever  made  love  to  her  the  way 
Mr.  Symington  did  to  Marthe,  and  all  the  "  softs  "  of  the 
neighborhood  went  mooning  and  spooning  about  Baby  Lant. 
But  the  fellows  all  chummed  with  Pat,  though.  And  it 
would  be  A i  and  no  error  if  these  old  Egham  pigs  would 
just  be  so  obliging  as  to  "  up  'n'  die  "  and  leave  Pat  the 
heiress  after  a  month  or  two. 

"  Where  Boreham- Egham  had  been  Lord  of  all 
Since  the  wild  Picts  drave  at  the  Roman  Wall," 

chanted  Gilbert,  who  had  been  getting  "  Boreland  Hall  " 
by  heart. 

But  in  the  girls'  parlor  was  battle,  murder,  and  sudden 
death — war,  pestilence,  and  the  sound  of  a  trumpet.  As 
for  Patricia,  the  snorting  of  her  horses  could  be  heard  unto 
Dan! 

Marthe  first,  in  right  of  seniority:  "I  won't  and  I 
shan't,"  she  wept.  "  I  don't  want  their  old  thousands — 
their  nasty  acres!  I  want  to  stay  here,  just  where  I  am — 
no,  not  just  what  I  am.  I  won't  do  it  for  father  or  mother 
— nor  for  the  whole  pack  of  your  old  Boreham-Eghams " 

"They  aren't  mine!"  said  Baby  Lant;  "I'm  sure  I 
don't  want  the  horrors — never  go  out  of  the  house,  they 
say — stuck  up  there  like  mechanical  dollies  that  won't 
work!" 

"  Yes,  Marthe,"  said  Patricia,  tenderly  for  her,  "  we 
123 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

understand — you  shan't  have  to  go,  if  we  can  help  it. 
Count  on  us.  We  will  cover  your  retreat.  But  you  must 
behave  ever  so  badly  when  you  get  there.  We  must,  I 
think,  change  characters.  That's  the  way  to  disgust  the  old 
frumps  with  you.    Then,  after  that,  you  can  come  back  here 

and  marry  Willie " 

And  seizing  a  convenient  chair  back,  she  made  it  revolve, 
while  she  herself  waltzed  round  it,  singing  to  an  unkenned 
tune: 

"  O  gentle  wind,  that  bloweth  south 
From  where  my  love  repaireth, 
Convey  a  kiss  frae  his  dear  mouth, 
And  tell  me  how  he  fareth  ! 

««  O  Willie's  rare  and  Willie's  fair, 
And  Willie's  wonderous  bonny, 
And  Willie  promised  to  marry  me 
Gin  ever  he  married  ony  !  " 


The  last  lines  were  rather  jerkily  delivered,  owing  to 
the  fact  that  the  singer  had  at  the  same  moment  to  sing,  to 
keep  the  chair  revolving  in  the  measures  of  the  dance,  and 
to  evade  the  wild  sweeps  of  Marthe,  who  had  flung  herself 
upon  her  sister,  half  laughing,  half  crying,  and  was  trying 
to  stop  her  with  her  hand  over  her  mouth. 

"  For  shame — how  can  you !  "  she  gasped. 

"Oh,  quite  easy — like  me  to  begin  again?"  panted 
Patricia.  "  There's  ever  so  many  more  verses — all  about 
'  Sweet  Willie  ' !  " 

"  For  pity's  sake,"  cried  Marthe  through  her  tears,  "  do 
be  sensible.  You  are  never  sensible,  Patricia.  You  make 
fun  of  everything,  and  this  means  all  the  world  to  me !  " 

124 


THE    HEIRESS    ON    PROBATION 

"  There,  there,  don't  cry,"  said  Pat,  catching  her  sister 
about  the  waist  and  pulling  her  on  her  knee,  "  we  will  call 
you  out  of  this  game,  eh,  Baby  Lant? 

"  I  say,  Babe,"  Pat  went  on,  stroking  Marthe's  smooth 
brown  head  in  a  way  all  her  own,  which  she  knew  Marthe 
liked,  "  we  shall  form  the  '  Marthe  Protection  Society,'  with 
secretaries  and  treasurers  all  complete — same  as  they  do  over 
at  your  Willie's  church  for  the  Aborigines'  and  the  Con- 
demned Criminals'  Aid  Society,  and  the  Highlands  and 
Islands!  Very  ungrateful  these  Highlands  and  Islands  are, 
though.  For  they  are  always  saying  that  Willie  and  all 
the  other  ministers  are  going  to  the  bad  place,  because  they 
don't  believe  the  same  thing  as  John  Knox  and  those  old 
people  did !  I  wouldn't  have  any  more  collections  for  them, 
after  you  are  married,  if  I  were  you,  Marthe!" 

"  Oh,  I  wish  you  would  not,"  said  Marthe,  lifting  her 
tear-stained  face  and  looking  piteously  at  her  sister,  "  you 
just  spoil  everything.  You  know  that  he  has  never  said  a 
word  yet.  He  thinks  that  he  ought  not — that  we  are  rich 
and  he  is  poor — and,  oh,  I  wish  I  had  never  been  born!  " 

"  Marthe,  my  little  Marthe,"  said  her  younger  sister, 
"  don't,  I  tell  you,  don't.  It  will  all  come  right.  He  does 
care,  anyone  could  see  that,  the  very  blindest.  And  he  shall 
speak,  if  I  have  to  call  and  ask  his  intentions  with  father's 
4.8  Webley.  There,  I  won't  make  fun.  But  trust  us,  Baby 
Lant  and  your  old  Sis  Pat,  we  can  paddle  our  own  canoe, 
and  it  will  be  a  very  remarkable  prince  consort  who  can 
get  much  change  out  of  us!  Anyway,  we  will  see  you  on 
the  right  side  of  the  fence,  and 

"  *  Marr-ri-ed  to  your  Willie,  marr-ri-ed  to  your  Willie, — 

With  nothing  to  fear  and  two  hundred  a  year, 

Marr-ri-ed  to  your  Willie'  '  " 

125 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

She  was  a  cheerful  young  woman  to  have  in  the  house, 
this  Patricia  McGhie.  So,  in  the  girls'  parlor  a  plot  was 
hatched  on  the  spot. 

"  We've  got  to  go  to  that  horrid  old  castle.  Mother  has 
to  go  with  us.  For  all  the  use  she'll  be,  they  might  as  well 
have  sent " 

"Patricia!"  cried  Marthe,  "think  of  the  first  com- 
mandment with  promise!  " 

"  Pshaw!  "  exclaimed  Patricia.  "  I  could  do  with  a  little 
less  promise  to  our  commandments.  If  they  would  only 
leave  out  heiressdoms  and  Egham  Boreham-Eghams — scis- 
sors! it  sounds  like  a  real  ham-and-eggy  Scotch  breakfast, 
served  by  men  in  kilts  with  cock's  feathers  in  their  bonnets, 
like  they  have  at  some  of  the  highland  railway  hotels !  " 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  say  '  like  they  have,' "  cried 
Marthe;  "Em  sure  Miss  Cleary  told  you  often  enough  it 
was  vulgar!  " 

"  Marthe,  you  were  born  ungrateful,"  remonstrated 
Pat.  "  Here  we  are,  Babe  and  me,  planning  everything,  so 
that  you  may  be  poor  and  happy  all  your  life.  And  you  go 
and  chuck  Miss  Cleary  at  our  heads  about  grammar.  Pretty 
Irish  accent  she  had,  if  it  comes  to  that — the  ould  fuzzy- 
haired  skye-terrier-worshiping  darlint!" 

"Patricia!" 

"  Now,  Marthe,"  said  Pat  soberly,  "  if  you  are  going 
to  go  off  at  intervals  like  a  heavy  paternal  one-ton  gun, 
commit-his-body-to-the-deep,  I'll  pack  you  off  this  minute  to 
be  an  heiress,  and  you'll  never  see  your  ain  dear  Willie — 
never  no  more  at  all.  Besides,  I'll  stop  stroking  your  head, 
and  you  won't  like  that!  Just  dry  up  till  it  stops  rainin', 
as  the  poet  Dryden  says  in  his  '  Odyssey  ' !  " 

"I  don't  believe  he  ever  said  any  such  thing!"  cried 
Marthe,  with  her  head  nested  on  her  sister's  shoulder. 

126 


THE    HEIRESS    ON    PROBATION 

"  Oh,  very  well  then,"  said  Patricia,  "  call  your  own 
nearest  and  dearest  a  liar — just  when  she  is  prepared  to 
make  a  virgin  martyr  of  herself  and  become  rich  beyond 
the  dreams  of  Thingumbob,  all  for  your  ungrateful  sake. 
Do  it !     It's  all  she  can  expect !  " 

"  Patricia,  I  wish  you  wouldn't;  my  head  aches,"  said 
Marthe  plaintively.  "  I  can't  go  through  everything — mak- 
ing fun  and  talking  to  burglars  and  cheeking  the  universe, 
like  you." 

Patricia  let  her  hand  drop,  pretending  to  be  struck  dumb 
by  the  last  words.     She  sighed  wearily. 

"  That  it  should  have  come  to  this!  "  she  cried.  "  Only 
to  think  that  my  own  eldest  sister  should  have  said  such 
things  about  me — a  poor,  innocent  girl  like  me,  ready  to 
take  every  penny  she  is  ever  likely  to  possess  in  the  world — 
1  going  about  cheeking  the  universe.'  She  said  I  cheeked  the 
universe!  These  were  her  words!  Oh,  Marthe!"  And 
she  made  pretense  to  sob. 

But  Marthe  was  not  in  the  least  put  about — this  time. 

"  Go  on  stroking  my  head,  Pat,"  she  said,  "  and  tell 
me  what  you  are  going  to  do  when  you  get  to  Egham 
Castle!" 

"  Wait  and  see!  "  said  Patricia  mysteriously.  "  I  daren't 
tell  you  now !  " 

And  really  she  could  not,  for  she  did  not  know. 

Before  they  went,  their  mother's  person  had  to  be  newly 
covered  up  with  the  richest  purchasable  materials,  arranged 
by  the  best  dressmakers  in  the  style  appropriate  to  middle- 
aged  ladies  of  respectable  position.  And  the  eldest  of  the 
three  girls?  What  was  the  nature  of  her  leave-taking  with 
Mr.  Symington,  would  never  have  been  revealed  by  Marthe, 
if  it  had  not  been  for  Pat's  unjustifiable  interference.     He 

127 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

walked  home  with  her  under  one  umbrella  from  the  Back 
Mill  Lands  Mothers'  Meeting.  Pat  met  them  near  the 
turn  of  the  walk,  which  is  just  not  commanded  from  the 
window  of  P.  Brydson  McGhie's  study. 

"  You'd  better  do  it  here!  "  she  said.  "  Ten  yards  farther 
on,  father'll  spot  you!  " 

Which  glaring  slang  Marthe  could  not  resent  under 
the  circumstances,  as,  in  the  interests  of  the  departed  Miss 
Cleary,  she  felt  that  she  ought. 

"  Now,"  said  Pat,  coming  back  after  a  season — and  a 
season  spent  looking  for  brambles  on  raspberry  bushes — 
"  I  suppose  you  feel  very  poor  and  mean  and  churchyardy, 
you  two.  But  cheer  up!  Baby  Lant  and  I  will  protect 
her  with  our  lives.  We  will  be  content  to  live  miserable 
and  rich  all  our  days,  and  bring  her  back  to  two  hundred 
a  year  and  you,  Brother  Willie!  " 

"  Oh !  "    cried    Marthe    faintly,    from    some    undefined 
locality  where  her  cries  were  half  stifled. 
"  What's  the  matter?  "  said  Pat  sharply. 
"  What  you  called  him !  "  said  Marthe,  freeing  herself 
with  an  effort.     "Think  shame!  " 

"Well,  he  is,  isn't  he?"  said  Pat  easily.  She  loved 
clear  understandings.  "  You  are  going  to  be  our  dear 
Brother  Willie,  aren't  3^ou?" 

"  It  is  my  most  precious  hope!  "  said  the  Rev.  William 
Heath  Symington,  with  whose  dark  Inverness  cloak 
Marthe's  hat  and  feather  had  become  tangled  in  the 
twilight. 

"Ah,  I  thought  so,"  said  Pat.  "Better  be,  too!  Do 
either  of  you  think  that  I  would  be  mussing  about  here  at 
this  time  of  night,  when  I  should  be  packing  my  duds, 
laying  out  my  war  paint,  dodging  father's  genealogical  lec- 
tures, and   inventing  excuses  why  you,   Marthe,   have   not 

128 


THE    HEIRESS    ON    PROBATION 

yet  come  in,  if  he  wasn't  to  be  my  dear  Brother  Willie?  I 
say,  I  suppose  it  is  two  hundred  a  year  you  have — I  want  to 
know.  Father  won't  ask  him,  and  I  don't  suppose  that  you 
ever  thought  of  it,  Marthe.     So  /  must." 

"  I  daresay  with  the  little  I  earn  in  other  ways,  I  can 
make  it  somewhat  more  than  that,"  said  Mr.  Symington, 
blushing  and  stammering. 

"  What  other  ways?  "  demanded  practical  Pat.  "  Grab 
it  out  of  the  church  doorplate  under  cover  of  your  gown 
as  you  go  by?  " 

"Oh,  Patricia!"  cried  Marthe  plaintively.  "She 
doesn't  mean  it!  "  she  added  from  the  retirement  to  which 
she  had  returned ;  "  Pat  is  always  like  that." 

"  And  a  good  thing  for  some  silly  little  fools  that  she 
is!  "  said  Patricia  emphatically. 

"  I  am  getting  a  fairly  good  connection  with  the  press," 
explained  Mr.  Symington.  "  Last  year  I  made  at  least 
£60.  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor  I  did  not  grab  it 
from  the  offertory,  as  you  suggest.  I  use  that  only  as  a 
last  resort,  Sister  Pat!" 

"  That's  where  your  brown  Jouvin  gloves  came  from, 
I  bet !  "  said  Pat,  with  strong  certainty.  "  Let's  see,  Brother 
Willie — £260  and  a  manse,  with  no  taxes  to  speak 
of,  and  no  bad  habits  except  that  of  buying  Jouvin  gloves 
— well,  you  may  manage.  But,  Brother  Willie,  you  will 
have  to  shake  up  your  old  newspaper  editors  and  get  some 
more  money  out  of  them !  " 

"  I  daresay  I  could,"  said  Mr.  Symington,  "  if  I  had 
the  incentive !  " 

"Don't  worry,  I'll  be  your  incentive!"  said  Pat  vi- 
ciously. "  If  you  don't  do  your  duty  by  Marthe,  you'll  have 
to  settle  with  me!  Come — to  horse — away!  No,  not  a 
moment   more — I   forbid   the  banns.      Most   hard-heartedly 

129 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

do  I  forbid  them!  Never  been  taken  that  way  myself,  and 
may  Allah  and  all  the  minor  prophets  preserve  me.  Good 
night,  Brother  Willie.  Go  home  and  get  out  the  long  pole 
you  stir  up  the  editor  fellows  with!    Think  of  me!  " 

As  the  minister  went  home  he  thought  within  his  black- 
coated  bosom  that  he  had  never  seen  such  a  girl  as  Patricia. 
But,  being  a  man  with  a  taste  for  the  plain  dishes  at  a 
feast,  he  concluded  with  a  private  thanksgiving  that  Pa- 
tricia McGhie  was  to  be  to  him  only  a  sister-in-law  and  not 
a  wife. 

Dear,  sweet,  simple  little  Marthe!  He  could  see  her 
all  day  moving  about  the  little  manse.  Patricia  didn't  fit 
there,  somehow. 

Meanwhile  Baby  Lant  tranquilly  arranged  her  ward- 
robe. She  was  quite  content  with  her  sphere  and  station  in 
life — to  be  known  as  "  the  pretty  Miss  McGhie,"  to  stay 
in  the  corner  of  a  sofa  and  have  desirable  young  men,  riding 
on  horses,  come  and  tell  her  so — that  was  in  the  mean- 
time quite  enough  for  Baby  Lant. 

As  for  Patricia — she  didn't  care  one  way  or  the  other. 
She  knew  that  in  any  case,  at  home  or  abroad,  she  would 
have  to  do  the  collar  work  for  the  family.  She  could  see 
herself  nursing  Marthe's  babies — smacking  them,  too,  boss- 
ing Gilbert  at  college,  reforming  Bob,  and  arranging  who 
Baby  Lant  was  not  to  marry. 

She  knew  it  would  all  fall  on  her.  She  had  never  ex- 
pected anything  else.     It  was  what  she  was  made  for. 


130 


CHAPTER    X 

EGHAM  CASTLE 

HEN  Mrs.  McGhie  and  her  three  daughters 
reached  Egham  Castle,  the  ancestral  abode 
of  the  De  Boreham-Eghams,  all  that  one  of 
her  daughters  remarked  was,  "  Well,"  it  looks 
it !  "  There  is  no  use  indicating  the  speaker. 
Egham  Castle  had  been  built  in  the  later  years  of  the 
eighteenth  century  upon  a  superb  site,  surrounded  by  miles 
of  woodland — now  temporarily  impoverished,  said  good 
judges,  by  the  rapacity  of  Controller  Hammer,  who  had 
no  notion  of  the  use  of  a  tree  except  as  timber  bringing  in 
so  much  per  cubic  foot,  and  who  never  thought  of  spending 
a  penny  upon  planting  or  fancy  forestry. 

Egham  was  a  fine  old  Palladian  house,  with  a  double 
front  flight  of  steps  wide  enough  for  a  Roman  temple  of 
Jupiter.  Rows  on  rows  of  heathen  gods  were  stuck  over 
the  porch  and  disposed  in  niches,  the  dolphins  and  thunder- 
bolts of  the  gentlemen  conspicuously  ornamented  with  eaves' 
droppings  and  sparrow  work,  and  the  ladies  being  in  the 
taste  of  the  Regency,  were  mercifully  green  molded  to  suit 
the  conventions  of  another  age  and  climate. 

The  modern  Egham  Castle  stood  on  the  site  of  a 
baronial  fortress  with  round  towers,  crooked  staircases,  wheel 
wells  in  the  courtyards,  and  the  recurring  three  acorns  of 

131 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

the  ancient  Saxon  family  of  the  De  Boreham-Eghams  which 
had  emigrated  northward  in  the  time  of  Margaret,  the 
queen  of  Malcolm  Canmore.  So  at  least  said  the  predeces- 
sors of  Mr.  Alf  Caigton,  who  had  been  at  the  bottom  of  the 
ancient  books  of  heraldry,  even  as  he  and  his  like  are  the 
foundation  stones  of  the  new. 

Two  serving  men  on  either  side,  the  Hammers,  husband 
and  wife  in  the  center,  welcomed  the  four  ladies  to  Egham 
Castle. 

"  Mr.  Egham  Boreham-Egham  hopes  you  will  excuse 
him,"  said  Mr.  Hammer,  the  points  of  his  shot-silk — purple- 
and-black — aniline  whiskers  waving  in  the  breeze.  "  Mr. 
Egham  Boreham-Egham  is  very  delicate,  and  the  least  ex- 
ertion fatigues  him.  Indeed,  he  has  never  quite  got  over  the 
writing  of  the  letter  of  invitation !  " 

Thus  far  Mr.  Hammer.  During  the  delivery  of  this 
speech  he  had  bowed  four  times,  once  separately  to  each 
of  the  ladies.  And  already  in  his  own  mind  Mr.  Hammer 
had  made  his  choice — which,  though  they  did  not  know  it, 
was  all  there  was  to  the  business. 

They  might  just  as  well  have  turned  about  the  horses 
and  gone  back  to  the  station — that  is,  all  but  the  heiress. 

Mrs.  Hammer,  otherwise  Marigh,  bent  also.  She  was 
girt  so  tightly  in  stiff  black  silk  that  when  she  bowed  ske 
crackled  all  over,  like  a  broomy  knoll  on  a  hot  sunny  after- 
noon in  August  when  the  pods  are  opening  by  dozens. 

The  McGhie  ladies  were  conducted  upstairs  into  the 
sixty-foot  salon,  at  the  upper  end  of  which,  one  on  either  side 
of  a  meager  fire,  as  if  to  block  it  from  running  away,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Philip  Egbert  Egham  Boreham-Egham  sat  waiting. 

They  stood  up  to  receive  their  guests,  the  gentleman 
being  "boosted"  (as  Pat  remarked  afterwards)  by  Coaly 
Whiskers,  while  his  wife,  Marigh,  did  the  same  office  for 

132 


EGHAM    CASTLE 

the  lady.  The  two  figureheads  of  the  house  retained  this 
position  sufficiently  long  to  be  kissed  by  their  four  relatives, 
and  then  subsided  into  their  chairs  with  a  sigh  of  genuine 
relief. 

"  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Baby  Lant,"  said  Patricia,  "  if  this 
performance  is  to  be  often  repeated,  I  declare  I  shall  have 
to  support  myself  during  the  ordeal  by  hanging  on  to  Mr. 
Hammer's  purple  elephant  tusks!" 

"For  shame!"  said  Marthe.  "Mother  says  that  the 
Hammers  are  most  valuable  and  faithful  old  family  serv- 
ants, and  that  uncle  and  aunt  do  nothing  without  consulting 
them." 

"  I  should  think  not,"  said  Patricia.  "  Well,  if  /  am  the 
chosen  of  Mr.  Philip  Egbert  Egham  Boreham-Egham — 
why  they  don't  call  him  '  omelet '  at  once,  I  can't  think — 
if  I  have  to  support  those  whiskers,  they  shall  at  least  sup- 
port me,  that  is  if  I  have  to  salute  uncle  daily.  Ugh!  It 
was  like  kissing  the  wall  of  a  new  house  when  the  plaster  is 
still  wet." 

"  Saluting  aunt  is  like  kissing  an  old  one,  where  the 
plaster  is  green  moldy !  "  said  Baby  Lant. 

"  You  ought  both  of  you  to  be  ashamed  of  yourselves," 
declared  Marthe  sententiously. 

"  So  we  are,  really,  Marthe,"  cried  Patricia,  "  only  it 
doesn't  show  on  us." 

"  It  certainly  does  not!  "  said  Marthe.  "  All  the  same, 
they  are  the  only  uncle  and  aunt  we  have  got " 

"  And  quite  enough,  too,  if  they  are  samples  of  what  the 
others  would  be,"  declared  Patricia,  trying  to  kick  off  her 
shoes  without  untying  them. 

"  Fusty  old  things,"  said  Baby  Lant.  "  I  couldn't  stay 
here  six  weeks — not  to  be  Prince  of  Wales.  I  should  run 
home  and  marry  the  gardener!" 

133 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

"  For  shame !  "  said  Marthe — more  faintly,  however. 

"  All  very  well  for  you,  Marthe,"  said  Pat,  glooming 
menacingly  at  the  trim  little  figure,  "  with  You-Know-Who 
waiting  for  you,  and  improving  every  shining  hour  by 
writing  you  screeds  and  screeds  of  love  letters!  But  if,  as 
I  fear,  it  is  my  lot  to  remain  in  this  gay  abode,  an  innocent 
lamb  offered  up  to  the  sacrifice  for  the  sake  of  my  esteemed 
fambly,  well,  you  know  what  a  hive  of  bees  does?  " 

"  Work !  "  said  Marthe. 

"  Sting!  "  said  Baby  Lant.     "  I  should !  " 

"  No — hum!  "  declared  Patricia  viciously.  "  Things 
will  '  hum  '  in  this  sub-Arctic  palace  hall,  as  saith  Dryden 
the  poet — I'll  see  to  it  personally — 

*'  «  That  lots  of  things  get  up  and  hum, 

Which  once  were  good  and  dead  and  dumb ! ' 


See  Dryden's  '  Rape  of  the  Lock  ' !  " 

"  I  don't  believe  Dryden  ever  wrote  that,  or  the  '  Rape 
of  the  Lock '  either,"  said  Marthe,  "  but  I  shall  ask 
Willie!" 

"  Ah,  Willie,"  said  Pat  carelessly,  "  he  had  better  mind 
what  he  is  about,  contradicting  me,  or  I  shall  make  it 
double  the  money  before  he  can  have  you !  Twice  £260  is 
— is — how  much  is  it,  Marthe?  " 

"  You — you — "  cried  Marthe  indignantly,  unable  to 
get  further. 

"Yes,  just  me,  and  he  knows  it!"  said  Patricia.  "I 
have  got  little  Willie  on  a  string.  He's  scared  stiff  for  fear 
I  should  say,  '  Avaunt — begone — never  shall  I  sully  the 
McGhie  ancestral  tree  with  a  Heath   Symington!'" 

"  I  dare  you  to  say  any  such  thing,"  cried  Marthe.  "  I 
134 


EGHAM    CASTLE 

shall  marry  whom  I  like.     You've  got  nothing  to  do  with 
me! 

"Oh,  haven't  I?"  cried  Patricia.  "All  right,  little 
lady.  I  have  only  to  behave  badly  and  you  shall  be  the 
heiress!  and  say  'Yes,  sir,'  'Certainly,  sir,'  to  the  prince 
consort  when  Hammer  brings  him  up  the  stairs.  And 
Willie  will  go  out  straight  off  and  drown  hisself  in  Yarrow, 
in  spite  of  the  fact — which  I  think  I  mentioned  before — 
that  he  is  '  wondrous  fair  and  wondrous  bonnie 

"  Patricia,"  cried  Marthe,  half  laughing,  half  in  tears, 
"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  speak  like  that.  It  makes  me  all 
creepy!    It  might  bring  bad  luck!  " 

"  Oh,  bad  luck — bad  luck  to  it !  "  cried  Pat,  getting 
ready  for  bed  in  a  kind  of  misty  whirlwind,  her  wardrobe 
distributing  itself  to  the  four  corners  of  the  room,  while  the 
other  two  conscientiously  folded  away  their  things  as  at 
boarding  school.  The  girls'  rooms  were  on  the  floor  above 
their  mother's  one,  and,  happily,  all  communicated  by 
practicable  folding  doors. 

There  was  a  loud  bump,  the  creak  of  long-used  springs, 
as  Patricia  made  a  flying  leap  between  the  sheets. 

"  The  bed's  been  aired,  that's  one  thing,"  she  cried. 
"  I  say,  you  two,  if  the  Gray  Lady  of  Egham  walks  with  her 
head  in  her  hand,  and  the  headsman's  ax  that  cut  it  off  in 
the  other,  I  shan't  see  her.     For  I'm  dead  sleepy." 

"  Ooooh!  "  "  Ee eeeeeeeeh !  "  came  simultaneously  from 
Marthe  and  Baby  Lant.  "You  horrid  mean  thing,  Pat! 
Now  /  shan't  sleep  by  myself — not  for  a  moment ;  if  it  were 
ever  so !  " 

Five  seconds  after,  Marthe  and  Baby  Lant,  having  much 
curtailed  their  toilette  arrangements,  were  in  bed — one  bed 
— clutching  each  other  fast  and  with  the  clothes  pulled  well 
over  their  heads. 

135 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

As  for  Patricia,  she  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just.    She  even 
snored  a  little — that  is,  till  she  really  went  to  sleep. 
The  days  of  her  sorrow  were  not  yet. 

It  was  the  dark,  dark  night — the  same  night — down  in 
a  well-furnished  chamber  on  the  ground  floor.  From  bed- 
steads riding  at  anchor  in  opposite  corners  of  the  apartment 
Marigh  and  Algernon,  joint  controllers  of  the  house  of  Bore- 
ham-Egham,  compared  notes,  like  rival  cocks  crowing  at  each 
other,  each  from  his  own  private  coign  of  vantage. 

"  The  eldest  one  looks  the  softest,"  said  Marigh,  medi- 
tating into  the  thick  darkness,  "  but,  of  course,  you  can't 
never  really  tell  till  you  try  them.  And  those  dumpy,  little, 
round,  partridgy  girls — well,  large  families  are  so  very  un- 
manageable, and  I  can  see  by  the  look  of  her  that  it's  on  us 
that  the  trouble  of  rearing  would  fall.  No;  on  the  whole, 
the  second  pleases  me  best,  Algernon !  " 

Cunning  Algernon  waited  till  his  wife  had  achieved  her 
catalogue,  so  that  he  might  agree  with  her,  and,  as  it  were, 
clinch  the  matter  at  the  proper  moment. 

"  That  second  'un,"  said  Marigh,  "  she  looks  masterful, 
but " 

"What  do  you  think  of  Miss  Atalanta,  the  youngest? 
Now  she's  a  beauty,  if  you  like !  "  remarked  the  far-seeing 
Algernon,  adding  under  his  breath,  "  that's  enough,  if  I 
know  Marigh !  " 

He  had  selected  Patricia  at  the  first  glance,  before  the 
girls  had  followed  their  mother  out  of  the  carriage.  But 
he  wanted  it  to  appear  as  if  the  choice  came  from  Marigh. 
So  he  "  queered  "  Baby  Lant,  as  he  would  have  said,  by 
praising  her  beauty.  Marigh  objected  to  pretty  girls  on 
moral  and  personal  grounds.  She  would  as  soon  have  taken 
into  her  own   house — Egham   Castle — a  maidservant   who 

136 


EGHAM    CASTLE 

came  with  the  recommendation  that  she  had  just  done  seven 
years'  time  for  highway  robbery. 

"  I  wonder  to  hear  you,  Algernon,"  cried  Marigh,  a  mere 
voice  crying  out  of  the  thick  darkness,  "  I  do  wonder  to  hear 
you — a  proud,  idle,  vain  thing,  a  piece,  a  minx!  I  saw  her 
look  in  the  mirror  before  she  had  been  half  a  minute  in  the 
room.  I  was  helping  old  Curl  Papers  up  on  her  feet  when 
I  caught  her  at  it.  And,  when  I  was  passing  by  the  keyhole 
of  her  door  to-night,  I  heard  her  say  that — oh,  the  shameless 
minx! — that  if  she  had  to  kiss  master  again,  she  would  sus- 
tain herself  by  holding  on  to  your  whiskers — your  whiskers! 
Can  you  imagine  it  ?  " 

Caressing  the  noble  appendages  in  question,  Algernon 
began  to  think  more  kindly  of  Baby  Lant.  But  recognizing 
that  he  had  fully  committed  himself,  he  "  hemmed  "  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  said,  "  At  least  there  is  nothing  of  that  sort 
about  the  second,  Miss  Patricia,  eh,  Marigh?  She  does  not 
look  like  a  young — person — with  any  entanglement.  She 
won't  have  young  fools  coming  writing  poetry  to  her,  and 
with  never  a  thought  in  their  heads  but  whether  she  is 
pretty  or  not.  No,  she  is  not  that  style  of  girl.  I  quite 
agree  with  you,  Marigh.  We  always  do  think  alike — in 
serious  matters,  that  is.  The  second  will  do,  then — eh, 
Marigh?" 

''She's  my  choice,  certainly,"  said  his  wife;  "she  was 
from  the  first,  and  what  I  heard  at  the  keyhole — well,  that 
settled  it!" 

The  lady  had  not  yet  accustomed  herself  to  distinguish 
the  voices  of  the  sisters,  as  heard  through  keyholes.  Nor 
did  she  appreciate  their  several  characters.  Or  she  would 
never  have  credited  Baby  Lant  with  such  a  speech.  There- 
fore Patricia  was  elected,  chosen  in  conclave,  as  it  were, 
at  the  very  first  ballot. 

10  137 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

The  formal  assent  was  given  a  few  days  after  by  the 
voice  of  Mr.  P.  E.  Egham  Boreham-Egham. 

"  We  are  pleased  with  all  three  of  your  daughters,  sis- 
ter," he  said,  while  Hammer  stood  behind  to  make  sure  that 
there  was  no  mistake,  "  with  all  of  them,  and  very  much  so. 
But  "  (he  added),  "  as  it  is  necessary  to  choose  one  for  our 
heiress — there  is  no  entail  on  any  part  of  the  estates,  it  was 
broken  in  the  early  part  of  the  nineteenth  century — it  is  our 
intention,  subject  to  your  consent  and  that  of  my  esteemed 
brother-in-law,  Mr. — ah — McGhie,  that  it  shall  be  your 
second  daughter,  Miss  Patricia!" 

"  Provisionally!  "  said  Hammer  in  his  ear. 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  the  Lord  of  Egham,  going  on  hastily, 
like  a  schoolboy  who  has  been  reminded  that  he  has  left 
his  task  half  said,  "  that  is  to  say,  of  course,  we  will  arrange 
the  matter  thus — ah — provisionally.  We  must  sec  to  it 
that  we  suit  the  young  lady,  and,  ah — that  the  young  lady 
is — is — amenable !  " 

He  paused  a  little,  searching  for  the  final  word,  did  not 
quite  succeed,  but  took  it  in  lieu  of  better. 

During  all  this  rather  jolty  and  wire-drawn  harangue 
Mrs.  McGhie  had  acted  her  part  to  admiration,  though, 
as  usual,  without  saying  anything  articulate  enough  to  be 
set  down  on  paper.  But  now,  at  last,  she  said  a  memorable 
thing. 

"Yes,  yes,  Philip  Egbert,"  she  replied,  "I  have  often 
remarked  it.  But  how  wonderful  it  is  that  you  should  have 
found  it  out  at  the  very  first.  Patricia  is  by  far  the  most 
amenable  of  my  daughters!  " 

In  this  way  Patricia  became  provisionally  an  heiress, 
and  in  the  intervals  of  padding  and  powdering,  of  dress- 
ing and  undressing,  bedding  and  unbcdding,  the  Lord 
and    Lady   of   Egham    Castle,    the   controller   and    Marigh 

138 


EGHAM    CASTLE 

regarded  her  walk  and  listened  carefully  to  her  conver- 
sation. 

"  She  does  seem  an  amenahle  young  lady!  "  said  Marigh, 
to  whom  tin's  had  been  a  new  word.  "  Not  but  what  I 
should  have  liked  her  to  show  a  little  more  interest!  " 

"  Marigh,"  said  Algernon  Hammer,  "  for  once — only 
for  this  once,  mind,  Marigh — you  don't  know  what  you  are 
talking  about.  Lack  of  interest!  Why,  that's  the  very 
thing.  She  will  do  just  what  we  want  and  make  no  trouble. 
She  writes  letters,  but  /  post  them.  They  are  all  to  her 
family.  She  finds  herself  a  little  homesick,  no  doubt,  but 
that'll  wear  off!  A  good  sign,  I  call  it!  A  most  domestic 
young  lady,  and  very  polite.  '  Mr.  Hammer,  and  how  is 
your  wife  this  morning?'  'Mrs.  Hammer,  pleased  to  see 
you  looking  so  young  and  healthy,  and  how  is  your  hus- 
band this  morning?' — a  very  proper  spirit!  A  beautiful 
spirit,  I  call  it,  in  one  so  young!  We  could  not  have  fallen 
on  better.  Not  a  word  about  old  Croaker  Corsets,  or  old 
Madam  Powder  Puffs.  Mess  you,  that  girl's  head's  screwed 
on  the  right  way.  She  knows  which  side  her  bread  is  but- 
tered on.  She's  quiet,  mark  me,  Marigh,  but  she  sees  as  far 
through  a  wooden  post  as  some  ten  times  her  age!  " 

"  I  hope,  Algernon,"  said  his  wife,  with  a  touch  of  re- 
sentment at  this  long  and  high-pitched  eulogium,  "  that  you 
will  never  have  reason  to  change  your  mind.  No,  I  don't 
mean  anything.  I  have  no  reason  to  mean  anything.  But 
— a  young  woman  whose  hair  curls  natural,  and  who  walks 
the  woods  like  a  guards'  officer  and  whistles  over  her 
shoulder  to  a  pair  of  dogs,  will  bear  watching.  Oh,  I  do 
admit  that  she's  always  been  the  most  respectful  to  me!  I 
have  no  complaint  to  make.  I  only  spoke  for  your  good, 
Algernon.    A  man  is  always  that  easy  took  in !  " 


139 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   FALL  OF  THE   KID 

E'S  a  '  hoodoo  ' !  I  tell  you,"  said  Corn  Beef 
Jo  crossly.  "  I  don't  know  how  he  managed 
it,  but  I  was  one  trip  with  that  young  man, 
and  all  we  brought  home  was  our  hide  and 
our  tools.  It'll  be  a  wonder  if  we  brings 
home  as  much  this  time.  Kids  is  off!  We  of  '  Blind  Jacob's  ' 
don't  use  them.  And  I  don't  see  that  there  is  anything  he 
can  do  for  you,  that  I  can't." 

Mr.  Alf  Caigton,  the  perfect  tourist — knickerbockers, 
spats,  Norfolk  jacket,  and  broad  heather-mixture  cap — looked 
at  his  companion,  the  same  lounging,  lazy,  dangerous  rough 
as  ever.    Then  he  shook  his  head. 

Next  he  coughed  because  he  did  not  want  to  quarrel 
with  Mr.  Corn  Beef  Jo.  Then  he  said,  "  Well,  the  truth 
is,  he  can  go  with  his  innocent  young  face  into  places  where 
they  would  make  short  work  o'  your  phiz  or  mine !  " 

"  What  sort  o'  places  ?  "  said  Corn  Beef  suspiciously. 
One  crib  was  the  same  to  him  as  another,  except  for  the 
difference  in  the  lock  fittings. 

"  Well,  you  see,"  said  the  pedigree  man  soothingly, 
"it's  this  way:  I  have  a  job  on  up  at  Egham  yonder — 
the  castle,  you  know.  It's  not  money,  for  they  don't  keep 
none.     That  beast  Hammer  has  every  '  make  '  in  the  bank 

140 


THE    FALL    OF    THE    KID 

in  half  an  hour.  Their  silver  is  too  heavy  to  carry  away, 
and  isn't  in  my  line,  anyway,  though  being  an  old  family 
they  have  some  hunder  weights  of  it.  But  it's  the  docyments 
I'm  after,  and  a  thousand  quid — sure  pay,  if  I  get  them. 
I  have  to  fork  out  a  fair  half  of  it  to  the  Knifer,  though — 
who  loans  me  that  boy,  and  who  pays  you,  my  friend, 
whether  I  get  the  docyments  or  not." 

Corn  Beef  said  nothing,  but  only  remained  sulky. 

"  Well,"  continued  the  pedigree  man,  yawning  in  the 
shade  of  the  big  fir  tree  under  which  they  were  reclining, 
"  I  don't  suppose  that  you  and  I,  Jo,  could  make  much  of  a 
figure  up  yonder  in  a  tight  suit  and  buttons  down  the  front, 
with  a  card  tray  for  callers,  and  fold  your  arms  under  your 
chin  when  the  young  lady,  wot  they  have  chose  for  heiress, 
drives  out  in  her  dogcart." 

"  Wot,"  cried  Joe,  "  he's  never  a  '  tiger,'  is  he,  that 
Kid?" 

"  But  that's  what  he  is,  though,"  said  the  pedigree  man, 
"  and  no  end  of  a  good  '  tiger '  he  does  make.  It  was  me 
that  thought  on  it  first,  and  he  is  larnin'  all  about  the  papers 
and  boxes  in  that  house,  and  when  the  time  comes  he'll  lift 
them.  Maybe  we  won't  have  to  set  a  foot  on  the  carpets 
ourselves.  Perhaps  you  will  have  to  open  a  safe — just  as 
it  happens.  Hammer — the  boss  butler — that's  what  he 
is,  don't  care  about  nothing  but  money.  But  the  old  boy, 
having  nothing  else  to  do,  often  takes  a  fit  of  arranging 
his  papers  and  all  that.  Then  he  locks  them  up  safe,  and 
lies  awake  with  the  key  round  his  neck — old  rattlesnake,  he 
is — all  rattles  and  no  snake !  " 

"  Easy  scragged,  that  kind,"  meditated  Corn  Beef  Jo 
softly,  his  long  bony  fingers  twitching  as  if  grasping  some- 
thing. 

"  Come,"  said  Alf  Caigton  uneasily,  "  I'm  not  on  for 
141 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

that  kind  of  talk.  Getting  hung  by  the  neck  till  I'm  dead 
won't  help  me  any,  nor  them  that  pays  me." 

"  What  I  don't  understand,"  said  Corn  Beef  Jo,  biting  at 
a  blade  of  tough  grass  between  his  black,  uneven  teeth,  and 
scragging  a  field  cricket  as  if  it  had  been  the  master  of 
Egham  Castle,  "  is — why,  if  the  bloomin'  heiress  is  the 
daughter  of  the  chap  you're  workin'  for,  and  the  papers  he 
wants  are  in  the  house  where  she  is — why  don't  she  up  and 
get  them  herself?  " 

"  Jo,"  said  Mr.  Alf,  "  you're  a  good  fellow  and  reliable 
so  far  as  ye  go.  But  there's  axles  within  wheels  at  this 
game.  My  old  joker,  he  daren't  tell  anyone  but  me  what 
he's  after,  till  I've  all  the  papers  slick,  and  the  tombstones 
superscribed,  and  buried,  ready  to  be  dug  up.  Then  he  goes 
with  all  his  proofs  in  one  hand  and  a  thumpin'  big  check  in 
the  other,  to  the  bloke  wot  writes  the  arms  an'  pedigrees  in 
a  book.  Then  after  it  has  been  printed  and  all  dikkered 
up  with  arms  and  chiefs  of  McGhie,  and  '  hald  retour  of 
the  lands  of  McGhie  in  1227  a.d.,'  and  how  he  swam  in 
an  ark  of  his  own  'longside  o'  Noah  at  the  flood,  holding 
wireless  communication  with  Shem  and  Japhet — Ham  never 
having  learned  his  Morse  and  being  a  disgrace  to  the  family, 
anyway! — why,  after  that  has  stood  a  couple  o'  years  and 
been  copied  into  all  the  other  blue-blood  manuals — why, 
McGhie  of  Balmaghie,  chief  of  that  name,  is  as  good  as  the 
McCallum  More  and  a  great  deal  better  than  any  one  of 
them  beer  lords,  who  have  no  ancestry  to  speak  of,  except 
that  their  father  made  good  beer  and  their  grandfather  better 
— pity  it's  all  drunk  up  now!  "  t 

"  But  what  does  your  McGhie  do  it  all  for  f  "  inquired 
Corn  Beef  Jo,  mystified. 

"  Just  to  get  in  wi'  the  nobs,  him  and  his  fambly,"  said 
Mr.  Alf,  fluttering  the  leaves  of  his  notebook.     "  Perhaps 

142 


THE    FALL    OF    THE    KID 

if  he  proves  that  he  has  a  clear  descent  for  three  hundred 
years,  they'll  make  him  a  baronet.  He  has  money  enough. 
Or  he'll  go  in  for  politics,  and  give  thousands  and  thousands 
to  the  treasure  chest  of  the  party " 

"  Is  it  a  Chubb,  think  ye?  "  inquired  Jo,  whose  interest 
was  professional. 

"  Oh,  no,  it  just  means  giving  money  to  help  the  red  or 
the  blue  politicians  to  win  at  the  elections,"  explained  Mr. 
Alf  Caigton,  "  an'  if  he  gives  enough  and  often  enough, 
they'll  make  him  a  lord,  maybe — I  shouldn't  wonder.  But, 
mind  you,  to  be  rich  is  the  main  thing.  And  this  pedi- 
gree business  is  just  a  frill  to  his  shirt.  So  that  when  he 
gets  made  a  lord  on  account  of  his  money,  them  he  has  to 
'sociate  with  won't  say,  '  Oh,  wot  an  outsider ! ' ' 

"  I  see,"  said  Corn  Beef  Jo,  "  but  it's  blame  nonsense, 
anyway,  to  my  thinkin' !  " 

"  U-m-m-m-m-m,  yes!  "  said  his  companion.  "  But,  you 
see,  fakin'  pedigrees  is  a  small  perfession  and  well  paid.  You 
don't  risk  the  rope.  You  live  fat.  You  have  your  ex's  sure 
— no  grumbling  about  them.  And  if  you  can't  find  any- 
thing exactly  to  the  purpose — why,  all  you've  got  to  do  is 
to  make  something!  Easy  as  comin'  downstairs  when  you 
slip  on  the  top  step !  " 

Meanwhile  the  progress  of  the  Kid  at  Egham  Castle 
had  been  rapid  in  the  extreme.  Almost  at  his  first  entrance 
he  had  been  able  to  conquer  the  liking  of  Mrs.  Hammer. 
Marigh  had  never  seen  such  a  willing  boy,  so  she  told  her 
husband. 

Now  Algernon's  opinions  with  regard  to  all  boys  what- 
soever were  exactly  those  of  his  wife  with  regard  to  pretty 
girls.  They  must  be  naturally  vicious,  and  would  bear 
watching.    It  occurred  to  Mrs.  Hammer,  for  instance,  that 

143 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

the  occasional  gift  of  a  copper  coin  of  the  realm  to  the  new 
buttons  would  provide  her  with  an  excellent  and  inex- 
pensive check  on  the  movements,  sayings,  and,  especially, 
writings  of  Miss  Patricia  McGhie.  As  our  young  friend 
was  still  on  her  probation,  she  had  not  been  compelled  to 
add  the  Egham  Boreham-Egham  to  her  name.  And,  indeed, 
in  contempt  of  all  Celtic  chiefships  and  Saxon  ancestors, 
she  continued  to  sign  her  hasty  letters  crisply  "  Pat  " — 
that  and  nothing  more. 

The  Kid  had  great  opportunities  for  getting  at  the 
secrets  of  his  young  mistress,  if  Pat  had  had  any  these 
days.  But,  with  a  duplicity,  which,  as  Madam  Hammer 
would  have  been  the  first  to  point  out,  showed  his  natural 
depravity,  he  promptly  informed  Miss  Pat  of  the  proposi- 
tions of  that  lady  concerning  his  duties  as  spy.  He  ex- 
hibited the  coppers  in  triumph,  and  finally  offered  to  tell 
"  the  old  cat  "  just  whatever  Miss  Patricia  wished  her  to 
think. 

He  was  not,  and  could  not  be,  a  remarkably  scrupulous 
Kid.  Nevertheless,  considering  his  upbringing,  he  averaged 
pretty  fair. 

Pat  contented  herself  with  advising  the  Kid  to  consider 
her  as  his  best  friend,  and — when  asked — to  say  that  "  she 
was  a  good  and  dutiful  young  lady."  "  In  saying  which," 
remarked  Pat,  "  you  very  much  understate  the  truth — but, 
at  least  at  first,  you  had  better  curb  your  youthful  en- 
thusiasm." 

The  instructions  of  Mr.  Alf,  communicated  to  the  Kid, 
were  to  spot  a  small,  flat,  japanned  box  of  papers  marked 
"  McGhie."  If  possible,  to  carry  it  off  without  creating 
any  suspicion ;  at  the  worst,  to  locate  it,  so  that  it  could 
be  reached  by  Mr.  Alf  and  his  associate — the  Knifer  being 
temporarily  detained  by  an  engagement  to  work   for  Her 

144 


THE    FALL    OF    THE    KID 

Majesty  in  one  of  her  palatial  mansions  known  to  the 
vulgar  as  prisons. 

The  box  would  certainly  be  among  the  contents  of  the 
big  safe  in  the  chamber  of  Mr.  P.  E.  Egham  Boreham- 
Egham.  Indeed  it  was  his  only  occupation  to  stick  a  long, 
sharp  nose  among  the  leaves  of  such  musty  old  documents. 
There  was,  it  appeared,  no  question  of  real  theft.  The 
papers  had  been  collected  by  Mr.  Egham  Boreham-Egham 
at  an  earlier  portion  of  his  life,  when  Mr.  Patrick  McGhie 
was  wishing  to  marry  Mr.  Boreham-Egham's  only  sister. 
These  documents  included  papers  showing  the  descent  of  the 
said  Mr.  Patrick  through  a  cattle  dealer,  two  pig  drovers, 
and  a  tinsmith — so,  as  it  were,  they  focussed  the  plebeian  ex- 
traction of  the  "  Balmaghie "  McGhies.  On  these  had 
been  founded  the  original  strong  objections  to  the  marriage 
on  the  part  of  the  owner  of  Egham  Castle — objections  which 
had  only  been  overcome  by  the  young  couple  taking  the  law 
into  their  own  hands,  and  running  away  together. 

You  would  never  have  suspected  them  of  this  amount  of 
spirit  to  look  at  them  now,  and  only  the  great  bulk  of  wealth 
amassed  by  the  pig  dealer's  son  had  induced  the  ancient 
couple  at  Egham  Castle  to  look  favorably  upon  one,  at  least, 
of  their  nieces. 

It  may  well  be  understood  then,  that  with  such  vivid 
hopes  of  succeeding  to  a  clan  chiefship  dating  from  the  stone 
age,  Mr.  P.  Brydson  McGhie  did  not  wish  to  be  confronted 
with  the  drover  and  the  pair  of  pig  dealers,  not  to  speak  of 
the  tinsmith.  Instead  of  leaving  his  money  to  his  eldest  son, 
the  chief  of  McGhie  was  arranging  to  make  a  trust  of  it, 
out  of  which  each  of  his  children  should  be  paid  a  certain 
yearly  sum — Gilbert,  of  course,  having  the  largest  share. 
Then  out  of  the  capital  the  trustees  were  empowered  to  buy 
up  all  valuable  pieces  of  land,  and  good  freehold  houses  com- 

145 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

ing  into  the  market,  within  a  certain  radius  of  his  then 
property  of  Balmaghie.  Whereupon,  as  soon  as  Gilbert,  or 
any  of  his  other  children,  or  any  direct  male  descendant  of 
any  of  his  sons  or  daughters  should  receive  a  heritable  title, 
the  whole  capital  of  the  McGhie  trust  was  to  be  made 
over  to  him,  subject  only  to  the  life  rents  at  that  moment 
payable,  which  life  rents  would  of  course  fall  in  with  the 
deceases  of  the  said  life  renters. 

Thus  a  peerage,  even  a  baronetage,  became  the  goal  for 
all  the  family  of  McGhie,  and  with  the  chances  of  the 
Egham  Boreham-Egham  connection,  and  the  selection  of  a 
suitable  prince  consort,  the  betting  was  heavy  in  favor  of 
Patricia  "  scooping  "  the  whole  family  money.  Meanwhile 
the  McGhie  boys  were  being  taught  to  support  themselves. 
Gilbert  was  going  forward  to  be  a  surgeon,  Tom  driving  a 
steel  nib  in  a  lawyer's  office — that  of  Messrs.  Searle  and 
Dalmahoy,  who  had  drawn  up  the  McGhie  trust — while 
Bob,  being  the  scapegrace  of  the  family,  was,  of  course,  des- 
tined for  the  ministry,  though  at  present  he  showed  no  desire 
to  implement  his  obligations  in  the  way  of  passing  the  neces- 
sary examinations. 

All  the  boys,  especially  Bob,  had  the  utmost  belief  in  the 
fairness  with  which  Pat,  if  she  did  "  scoop  in  "  the  dollars, 
would  "  divvy  up."  But  they  did  not  allow  their  minds 
to  rest  upon  the  possibility  that  Pat's  husband,  when  he 
came  to  his  prince  consortship,  might  see  the  matter  in 
a  somewhat  different  light. 

"  Well,"  said  fair-minded  Gilbert,  "  it's  no  use  abusing 
the  governor.  He  made  the  money — he  and  no  other.  And 
he  can  do  wThat  he  likes  with  it.  Em  going  to  stick  to 
dissecting — so  as  to  get  a  good  resident's  place  in  a  hospital. 
Then,  as  soon  as  I  can  afford  it,  I  shall  set  up  as  a  lady's 
doctor — very   swell — dreadfully    expensive,    in   a    tiptop   lo- 

146 


THE    FALL    OF    THE    KID 

cality.  And  if  I  don't  knock  out  a  baronetage  for  prescrib- 
ing whisky  and  lemon  to  some  rheumatic  old  royal  dowa- 
ger, I'm  a  Dutchman,  that's  all.  I  think  I  can  beat  Pat's 
young  man.  She  doesn't  look  like  a  girl  that  would  get 
married  in  a  hurry.  Besides  which,  I'm  really  the  eldest 
son,  and  you  know  the  Good  Book  says,  '  Thrice  is  he  armed 
that  hath  his  quarrel  just ' !  " 

The  other  McGhies  did  not  dispute  the  quotation,  but 
having  no  great  chance  of  attaining  a  peerage  or  any  other 
mark  of  distinction — except  in  the  case  of  careless  Bob,  the 
bankruptcy  court — they  continued  to  pin  their  faith  to  the 
generosity  and  fair-mindedness  of  "  good  old  Pat." 

It  was  in  these  complicated  family  circumstances  that 
the  Kid,  legal  and  real  head  of  the  Clan  McGhie,  and  son  of 
David,  late  of  Back  Mill  Lands,  became  Pat's  assistant 
and  confidant  in  her  first  struggles  for  independence  in  the 
Hammer-ridden  house  of  Boreham-Egham. 

"  I've  got  to  stay  here,"  she  said,  "  at  any  rate  till 
Marthe  pulls  it  off  with  her  Sweet  Willie.  She's  next 
favorite,  and  if  I  give  up,  she's  in  for  it.  And  it  would 
break  her  heart,  poor  old  girl.  After  all,  it's  not  much 
to  do  for  one's  family !  " 

Luckily,  at  the  moment,  she  did  not  know  how  much 
there  was  to  be  done.  For  Algernon  and  Marigh  had  not 
yet  begun  to  deploy  their  forces.  They  had  not  even  settled 
upon  the  prince  consort.  As  usual  the  question  of  finance 
was  the  difficulty. 

"  You  see,"  said  Algernon,  as  this  model  couple  sat  over 
their  cup  of  afternoon  tea  which  the  fair  hands  of  Marigh 
always  prepared  for  Algernon,  "  we  don't  want  any  of  those 
old  decayed  famblies,  with  no  money.  Lor'  knows  Old  Poker 
and  Lady  Tongs  upstairs  are  decayed  enough  to  serve  for 
twenty  generations.    There's  young  Tempest  Kilpatrick,  over 

147 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

the  hill,  of  course.  He's  a  wild  lot,  and  will  have  money  in 
time.  But  then  he  has  none  of  it  now,  and  we  must  have 
money  down.  There's  Jim  Scudamore,  too,  of  Scudamore, 
McMath,  and  Scudamore,  W.  S.  He's  in  the  same  box 
— son  of  my  old  master — I'd  be  pleased  to  give  him  a  hand. 
But  it's  cold  cash,  and  clear  out  sharp  for  us.  At  least,  the 
cash  we  must  have.  It  passes  the  wit  o'  man,  as  the  sayin' 
is,  to  devise  a  deed  that  would  hold  a  young  fellow  marry- 
ing our  heiress,  and  promising  to  pay  us  out  of  the  dowry 
afterwards.  The  first  thing  we  should  get  would  be, 
'  Walk  ! '  " 

Marigh  nodded.  She  was  proud  of  her  far-seeing  hus- 
band's mind — next,  I  suppose  to  her  pride  in  the  glossy 
purple  whiskers,  which  depended  like  the  tusks  of  a  wild 
boar,  one  at  either  side  of  his  pinky,  full-fed  face. 

"  No  lord  in  low  water,  nor  yet  any  young  aristocrat  on 
his  promotion,"  said  Algernon,  summing  up.  "  A  man  of 
business,  that's  what  we  want,  who  has  made  money  in 
trade,  willing  to  plank  down  the  cash  for  himself,  or " 

"  Why  not  Lord  Athabasca?  "  said  Marigh  suddenly. 
"  He's  rich  enough." 

Algernon  got  up,  and  flinging  his  arms  about  his  wife's 
neck,  saluted  her  ponderously  on  the  cheek. 

"Marigh — Marigh!"  he  cried  with  youthful  rapture, 
"  you  are  worth  your  weight  in  seed  pearls.  The  very  man ! 
Ripe,  past  middle  age,  a  widower,  and  his  wife  (that's  dead) 
a  squaw — a  red  Indian,  brown  as  my  boots  with  a  touch  of 
husky,  as  my  poor  brother  Ben  said,  who  was  in  the  Nor'- 
west  Police  for  bigamy.  Lord  Athabasca — and  no  other. 
Gives  away  millions,  but  don't  get  took  up  by  the  real  aris- 
tocracy. Gets  on — but  not  in.  Deuced  keen  to  get  in. 
He'd  jump  at  the  heiress  of  Egham  Castle  like  a  trout 
takes  a  March  brown.     He  can't  keep  his  eyes  off  her  in 

148 


THE    FALL    OF    THE    KID 

church  as  it  is.  Oh,  Marigh — Marigh!  What  a  woman 
you  are!  " 

Marigh  smiled,  visibly  flattered  by  all  this  enthusiasm, 
but,  like  a  practical  woman,  she  wished  the  subject  discussed 
in  all  its  bearings. 

"  But  he's  over  sixty,  if  he's  a  day,"  she  said,  "  and  has  a 


grown-up  son 


"A  crank  from  Crankyshire !  "  said  her  husband  con- 
temptuously; "good  o'  the  people — polytechnic,  reforma- 
tories, protechnics,  and  Old  Age  Homes — such  rot!  No 
wonder  his  father  has  cut  him  off,  or  nearly,  mixing  himself 
up  with  such  trash !  If  every  working  man  and  woman 
was  as  provident  and  careful  as  you  and  me,  Marigh,  there 
wouldn't  be  no  need  of  suchlike.  Old  Age  Homes,  indeed ! 
The  workhouse  is  too  good  for  them  that  hasn't  had  the 
pluck  and  forethought  to  look  after  themselves!  That's 
my  mind  on't!  " 

"  Ah,  indeed,  you're  right,  Algernon,"  said  Marigh. 
"  Where  would  we  have  been  if  we  hadn't  looked  after  our- 
selves? Have  another  cup  o'  this  Soochong,  Algernon.  It 
stood  old  skinflint  upstairs  in  six  shillings  a  pound,  as  I 
know  by  the  receipt.  Shipton's  best  at  one-and-a-penny  is 
good  enough  for  them!     They  don't  know  the  difference!" 

"Yes,  and  all  in  a  manner  o'  speakin',  our  money!  We 
may  as  well  drink  it !  "  said  her  husband. 

So  in  this  manner  the  fate  of  Patricia  was  decided. 
The  fate  was  sixty-five  years  of  his  age  and  was  entitled 
Lord  Athabasca. 

Patricia  was  introduced  to  my  Lord  (colonial)  Athabasca, 
who,  as  he  said  himself,  had  no  more  pedigree  than  a  fly 
on  a  tepee  wall,  but  who  had  the  greatest  respect  for  it 
when  he  found  it  in  its  ancestral  halls  in  the  old  country. 

149 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

Patricia  had  the  hardest  work  to  restrain  herself  from  tell- 
ing him  that  her  grandfather  drove  bullocks  to  Barnet  Fair, 
and  was  much  esteemed  at  a  bargain.  But  because  she  did 
not  want  the  bubble  to  burst  just  then — for  the  sake  of 
Marthe  and  Mr.  Symington,  who  were  getting  on  swim- 
mingly— she  refrained  herself. 

Athabasca  was  a  nice  old  man,  a  little  pompous  from  the 
habit  of  dominating  provincial  parliaments  and  addressing 
speeches  of  welcome  to  governors-general.  He  had  a  bald 
spot  on  his  crown  which  he  covered  with  some  success  by 
the  double-pleating  method,  and  another  lower  down  on  the 
bulge  of  his  cerebellum  which  was  beyond  all  hope.  With 
his  hat  on,  it  gave  him  the  look  of  having  been  mortally 
wounded  by  a  billiard  ball  and  yet  getting  about  lively,  a 
marvel  of  the  surgeon's  art. 

Nevertheless,  he  was  a  very  nice  old  man,  and  with  most 
settled,  respectable  opinions — nobody  more  so.  Which  made 
it  the  more  sad  about  his  son,  wearing  a  red  tie,  as  anyone 
could  see,  and — they  said — going  to  stand  for  any  seat  that 
would  have  him  in  the  socialist  interest.  Worst  of  all,  he 
called  himself  a  Fabian,  which  nobody  understood,  but  which 
all  felt  must  be  something  very  bad  indeed. 

This  was  the  more  surprising  that  in  Canada,  where 
Hearne  Mackenzie's  life  had  been  spent,  he  had  been  known 
as  the  finest  dancer,  the  finest  skater,  the  finest  snowshoe 
runner,  the  gayest  and  the  brightest  of  all  the  young  men 
who  sparkled  there  in  that  frosty  sky  of  winter. 

But  here  in  England  he  had  as  many  views  as  an  up-to- 
date  countess,  and  looked  as  serious  as  a  president  of  the 
Oxford  Union  three  minutes  before  he  has  to  begin  his  vale- 
dictory address. 

It  was  after  this  fashion  that  my  Lord  Athabasca  regu- 
lated the  situation  with  Mr.  Algernon  Hammer: 

150 


THE    FALL    OF    THE    KID 

"  I  understand — I  understand,"  he  said.  "  I  am  most 
willing  to  marry  the  young  lady.  I  consider  that  she  is  a 
very  remarkable  young  lady  indeed !  She  will  be  a  credit  to 
any  establishment,  and,  without  doubt,  a  remarkable  contrast 
to  my  former — ah — yes — very  willing  indeed  !  I  do  not 
know  how  it  comes  to  pass  that  you  can  influence  the  young 
lady's  decisions,  which  Mr.  Boreham-Egham  assures  me 
are  left  entirely  free.  But  if  you  can  do  so  in  my  favor 
— why,  I  have  been  a  man  of  business  all  my  life — and  I  am 
willing  to  meet  you.     How  much  do  you  ask? 

"Ten  thousand  pounds!  Well,  the  article  is  worth  it 
— that  is,  if  I  can  depend  upon  delivery!  Let  me  see. 
Choose  your  own  day  for  the  marriage.  I  will  write 
you  a  check  for  £10,000  payable  the  day  of  my  mar- 
riage. Further,  I  shall  instruct  my  banker  not  to  cash  it 
before  twelve  o'clock!  Agreed?  Very  well,  then;  if  that 
is  satisfactory,  I  will  write  you  a  check  for  the  amount, 
shall  we  say,  for  this  day  three  months,  the  twenty-fifth  of 
February  ?  " 

"  Now,"  said  Marigh,  "  that  is  what  I  call  a  gentle- 
man !  "  She  was  carried  away  by  the  bridegroom's  manly 
ease,  but  her  husband  said  only,  flipping  the  post-dated  check 
between  the  fingers  of  the  left  hand,  "  I  would  have  pre- 
ferred a  little  less  palaver,  and  the  cash  paid  down  on  the 
nail!  " 

"  I  daresay!  "  said  Marigh,  who  had  her  times  of  clair- 
voyance; "but,  you  see,  you  could  not  pay  Miss  Patricia 
down  on  the  nail !  " 

The  proposition  had  then  to  be  put  before  the  two 
strapped,  toothed,  wigged,  flanneled,  and  corseted  automata 
up  in  the  drawing-room.  In  other  words,  Lord  Athabasca 
paid  a  visit  as  a  neighbor,  and  in  the  course  of  it,  after  the 
usual  compliments,   he  mentioned   his  desire  to  be  allowed 

151 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

to  pay  his  addresses  to  their  interesting  young  ward,  Miss 
Patricia  McGhie. 

"  Egham  Boreham-Egham !  "  exclaimed  both  the  auto- 
mata in  chorus. 

"Well,  to  Miss  McGhie  Egham  Boreham-Egham!" 
corrected  the  aspirant,  reaching  the  end  in  a  breathless 
manner. 

"  You  have  our  best  wishes,"  said  both  the  automata  who 
had  been  well  Hammered,  "  but  do  not  be  cast  down  at  a 
first  refusal.  Young  people,  you  know.  And  Patricia,  we 
fear,  has  been  spoiled.  She  has  had  a  great  deal  of  admi- 
ration." 

"  She  deserves  it!  "  said  the  honest  peer.  "  There's  not  a 
handsomer  girl  between  here  and  Peace  River!  " 

The  automata  looked  at  each  other.  They  smiled.  In 
their  opinion  the  business  was  settled. 

"Ah,  I  have  some  documents,"  said  Mr.  Philip  Egbert; 
"  you  will  remember  that  the  young  lady  is  not  our  own 
daughter — adopted  merely — a  niece,  in  fact.  It  is  right  that 
you  should  know  her  pedigree.  When  her  father,  Mr. 
Patrick  Brydson  McGhie,  married  my  sister,  I  made  it  my 
business  to  inform  myself  on  the  subject!  The  informa- 
tion is  at  your  disposition." 

"  Oh,  bother,"  said  Lord  Athabasca  under  his  breath ; 
"  if  the  girl  is  willing,  that's  all  I  care  about.  But  I  suppose 
this  is  the  way  they  do  things  in  these  great  old  families,  and  I 
had  better  not  give  myself  away." 

Aloud  he  said:  "  I  thank  you  very  much,  Mr.  Boreham- 
Egham  ;  it  is  not  in  the  least  necessary.  But  if  you  are  ful- 
filling a  duty,  then  I  have  nothing  more  to  say!  " 

This  Mr.  Boreham-Egham  considered  a  very  proper 
response,  indeed,  and  accordingly  departed  in  search  of  the 
casket. 

152 


THE    FALL    OF    THE    KID 

It  was  not  to  be  found ! 

A  little,  oblong,  flattish,  japanned  dispatch  box,  with 
papers  in  it  of  no  particular  value  to  anybody,  had  disap- 
peared, and  for  the  first  time  for  fifty  years  Mr.  Philip 
Egbert  Egham  Boreham-Egham  became  agitated — violently 
agitated. 

More  than  that,  he  was  suspicious.  Still  worse,  sus- 
picious of  his  chosen  heiress.  Mr.  Philip  Egbert  had  few 
passions,  but  that  of  the  genealogist  was  the  chief  of 
them.  It  generally  indicates  mental  and  physical  decay 
— and,  say  the  doctors,  accompanies  myopia,  aphasia,  degen- 
eration, and  is  the  forerunner  of  paralysis  and  imbecility. 
But,  let  the  passion  be  ever  so  slight,  it  certainly  aroused 
some  dying  spark  in  Mr.  Philip  Egbert,  of  the  padded  chest 
and  the  extensive  nomenclature. 

"  I  saw  it  yesterday  with  my  own  eyes,"  cried  the 
genealogist.  "  Patricia  has  abstracted  these  documents — 
only  because  her  grandfather  was  a  cattle  drover,  and  her 
two  great-grandfathers,  on  the  male  side,  pig  dealers.  She 
shall  be  no  more  heiress  of  mine — no,  nor  a  moment  longer  a 
resident  in  my  house.  I  will  send  for  her  elder  sister,  and 
you,  my  Lord  Athabasca,  shall  marry  her  on  the  same  terms. 
We  have  done  with  her — a  girl  who  could  do  such  an  act  is 
capable  of  anything!  " 

"  But,"  remonstrated  Lord  Athabasca,  more  than  slightly 
discomposed  by  the  prospect,  "  I  do  not  want  to  marry  Miss 
Patricia's  sister,  and  I  do  want  to  marry  her.  Have  you 
not  come  rather  too  rapidly  to  a  conclusion?  " 

"No — no — no!"  screamed  the  padded  man,  almost 
shaking  himself  out  of  a  double  set  of  false  teeth  in  his  agita- 
tion. "  I  saw  her — saw  her  with  my  own  eyes,  I  tell  you. 
She  asked  to  look  at  them,  because  the  box  was  labeled 
with  her  father's  name.  No  doubt  they  have  already  been 
U       '  153 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

committed  to  the  flames — all  because  she  is  the  daughter  of 
a  pig  dealer,  or  her  grandfather  was,  which  amounts  to 
the  same  thing.  Absurd!  As  if  adoption  into  the  family 
of  the  De  Boreham-Eghams  were  not  sufficient  to  cover  a 
whole  styful  of  pig  dealers!  I  require  that  she  shall  be  sent 
for  instantly !  " 

Now  in  the  interval  between  Patricia's  examination  of 
the  documents  with  regard  to  her  pedigree  and  her  summons 
to  the  drawing-room  a  most  curious  thing  had  befallen.  Pat 
had  indeed  looked  at  the  papers  with  some  curiosity.  Her 
father's  father  was  a  drover,  and  she  sat  long  and  pleasurably 
pondering  on  his  strange  life — a  life  of  inns,  bulging  pocket- 
books,  masked  highwaymen  with  bludgeons  and  pistols — 
the  rough  life  of  the  open  road,  the  ponies  he  bestrode,  the 
leagues  he  tramped  it  on  foot,  all  the  glad  yellow  bloom 
of  all  the  glad  yellow  springs  on  whin  brae  and  broomy 
knowe  that  he  had  passed,  the  larks  he  had  heard  sing,  the 
girls  he  had  kissed — all  clay  and  leaf  mold  long  ago.  She 
hoped  he  had  a  good  time  while  he  lived,  this  grandfather 
of  hers.  For  assuredly  he  was  of  small  account  now,  that 
jolly  cattle  drover!  Because,  as  it  seemed  to  Patricia, 
there  was  in  these  ill  times  no  more  remembrance  of  the 
wise  man  than  of  the  fool,  in  spite  of  the  attested  fact 
that  wisdom  exceedeth  folly  as  the  light  excelleth  the 
darkness! 

And  the  pig  dealer,  the  two  dead  pig  dealers!  Patricia 
heard  the  squeal  of  the  unclean  beasts  as  the  two  great- 
grandfathers of  her  line  pinched  their  shoulders  and  poked 
them  knowingly  in  the  ribs.  She  hoped  that  they,  too,  had 
had  whatever  their  eyes  desired,  that  they  had  had  possessions 
of  small  and  great  cattle,  both  Berkshires  and  the  wiry  breed 
of  Ireland,  and  so  enjoyed  after  their  kind  the  delights  of 
the  sons  of  men  and,  to  the  amount  of  their  bank  account, 

154 


THE    FALL    OF    THE    KID 

gathered  in  silver  and  gold  and  the  peculiar  treasure  of 
kings. 

But  as  to  regretting  that  she  had  such  highway-pervading 
ancestors  with  their  droves  of  beeves  and  porkers,  Pat  Mc- 
Ghie  only  wished  that  she  had  been  born  in  their  day,  and 
with  her  own  ears  listened  to  the  merry  noise  of  clicking 
horns,  shouldering  cattle,  and  clacking  market  places. 

And  now  all  of  a  sudden,  lo!  she  found  herself  in  the 
presence  of  a  man  she  did  not  know — even  her  uncle,  Philip 
Egbert  Egham  Boreham-Egham,  angry,  denunciatory,  viru- 
lent. She  had  taken  these  papers — she,  Patricia.  Only  she 
had  any  interest  in  doing  so. 

No,  she  denied  it.  She  had  left  them  on  the  table.  Mr. 
Boreham-Egham  must  have  displaced  them  himself.  And 
then — swift  as  the  sheet  lightning  that  quarters  the  heavens 
in  the  heart  of  the  dog  days,  Patricia  remembered. 

On  the  back  stairs  as  she  ran  down  to  have  a  word 
with  cook,  concerning  certain  small  favoritisms  connected 
with  dinner  time,  she  had  met — whom  but  the  Kid,  her 
Kid — McGhie's  Kid  with  exactly  such  a  box,  and,  moreover, 
not  held  openly  in  his  hand,  but  dissembled,  or  partly  dis- 
sembled, under  his  arm! 

"Do  you  know  anything  of  the  matter  whatsoever?" 
demanded  the  genealogist.  "  Only  you  or  one  of  your  fam- 
ily could  have  had  the  least  interest  in  removing  these  papers. 
Do  you  know  or  do  you  not  know?  " 

"  I  do  not  recognize  any  right  you  have  to  cross-examine 
me !  "  retorted  Patricia  fiercely. 

"  That  I  will  show  you,"  said  the  aroused  man  of  the 
pads.  "  Send  Hammer  to  me,  and  go  and  pack  your  trunks, 
young  lady !  " 

"  You  can  ring  for  Hammer  when  it  pleases  you,"  said 
Patricia,  with  the  same  defiant  chin  of  the  pig  dealer  with 

155 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

a  big  fight  on  hand ;  "  and  as  for  my  trunks,  I  shall  go  more 
gladly  from  this  stupid  doll's  house  than  ever  I  entered  it. 
Papers,  indeed — genealogies — cattle  drovers  and  pig  dealers 
among  my  ancestors,  I  suppose  you  mean.  Why,  they  were 
better  men  and  of  more  use  in  the  world  than  people  who  are 
only  washed  and  dressed  and  put  to  bed  like  so  many  babies 
in  a  glass  incubator!  " 

It  is  doubtful  if  Mr.  Boreham-Egham  heard  this.  It 
is  certain  that  he  would  not  have  understood  it  if  he  had. 
Nothing  so  modern  as  an  incubator  had  ever  been  mentioned 
in  the  "  Gentleman's  Magazine,"  which  was  the  most  recent 
literature  allowed  within  the  walls  of  Egham  Castle.  But 
my  Lord  Athabasca  flashed  a  look  at  Patricia  of  admiration 
and  gratitude. 

"  You  will  understand,"  he  said,  "  that  whatever  hap- 
pens, heiress  or  no  heiress,  my  offer  stands !  " 

Patricia  held  out  her  hand  to  him. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  "you  are  a  good  man!  I 
wish " 

But  she  did  not  say  what  she  wished,  for  just  then  the 
door  was  cleft  as  it  were  by  a  kind  of  earthquake  shock. 
The  Kid  rushed  in  and  stopped  in  front  of  Mr.  Boreham- 
Egham. 

"  Oh,  don't  blame  Miss  Patricia,"  he  said ;  "  put  me  in 
prison — put  me  in  prison.  /  stole  the  black  box.  /  took 
the  papers.     /  came  into  this  house  to  do  it!  " 


156 


CHAPTER    XII 

THE    "  HEARNE    MACKENZIE  "    REFORMATORY 

DO  wish,  Molesay,"  groaned  Sheriff  Peebles, 
excellent  stipendary  magistrate  to  the  Cow- 
gate  police  missionary,  "  that  you  would 
not  bother  me  about  such  a  small  thing. 
You  do  not  know  how  I  have  been  upset — 
birth  of  my  eighth  child  only  yesterday,  a  boy — everything 
upset  in  the  house.  I  really  think  I  must  go  on  a  golfing 
holiday  to  tone  me  up!  And  now  you  come  bothering  me 
about  your  young  thieves. 

"What?  The  boy  might  have  thought  that  the  papers 
were  in  some  way  his  own — McGhie  family  papers!  What 
could  a  '  buttons '  have  to  do  with  such  things  except  to 
steal  them?  All  right,  then — I  will  send  him  for  five  years 
to  the  "  Hearne  Mackenzie  "  Reformatory,  where  my  Lord 
Athabasca's  harebrained  son  can  take  him  down  in  the  old, 
and  set  him  up  in  the  new.  That  will  satisfy  you,  won't  it? 
But  please,  Molesay,  don't  come  interfering  with  the  course 
of  justice  when  I  am  so  worried  personally.  Think — it 
happened  only  yesterday — an  eighth  child,  a  boy!  I  really 
must  take  a  holiday.  Oh,  yes,  the  mother  was  doing,  what  is 
the  phrase — as  well  as  could  be  expected — that  is,  when  I 
inquired  last!  But  it  is  all  most  tiresome  and  upsetting  to 
a  man  in  my  position !  " 

157 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

So  they  sent  the  Kid  to  the  "  Hearne  Mackenzie  "  Re- 
formatory, where  as  into  a  mill  boys  went  in  at  one  end 
marked  with  the  brand  of  the  law,  and  came  out  at  the 
other  good  soldiers,  brave  sailors,  and,  in  especial,  excellent 
colonists. 

"  Yes,"  said  Hearne  Mackenzie,  answering  slowly,  "  it 
is  true  that  I  am  a  salaried  official  of  this  institution.  Other- 
wise I  should  have  to  starve  or  emigrate,  which  would  be 
selfish.  I  was  sent  into  this  world  not  to  be  idle.  Yes,  I 
sunk  most  of  my  grandmother's  little  fortune  on  this  barren 
moor.  You  can  see  it  yonder — that  big  playground  covered 
from  the  rain,  sheltered  from  the  winter  blasts,  cost  alone 
more  than  a  thousand  pounds.  Oh,  of  course  there  were 
others,  but  they  were  rich,  and  when  they  put  their  hand 
in  their  breeches'  pocket,  their  purses  did  not  know  the  dif- 
ference after  they  had  brought  it  out.  Mine  did.  That  was 
all!" 

"  But  your  father,"  said  the  young  lady  to  whom  the  as- 
sistant superintendent  of  the  "  Hearne  Mackenzie  "  had  got 
into  the  habit  of  talking,  "  I  thought  he  was  a  rich  man !  " 

"  So  he  is — so  he  is,"  said  the  young  man  with  a  grim 
squaring  of  the  jaw,  "  but  you  see  over  there,  where  I  come 
from,  we  have  a  different  way  of  obeying  our  parents.  We 
do  it  by  doing  as  they  did.  My  father  ran  away  from  home 
when  he  was  thirteen.  I  gave  him  three  years'  longer  chance 
at  me,  and  then  I  took  my  own  way.  Since  that,  I  have  not 
asked  him  for  a  penny.  Nor  do  I  mean  to.  He  pleases 
himself — I  please  myself.  Everybody  is  pleased.  When  he 
comes  to  see  me  here,  I  show  him  round  like  any  other  vis- 
itor 

"  And  when  you  go  to  see  him?  "  said  the  girl,  who  was, 
of  course,  Pat  McGhie,  let  loose  from  Egham  Castle,  and  on 
the  track  of  her  poor  ex-button  boy,  the  Kid. 

158 


"HEARNE  MACKENZIE"  REFORMATORY 

"  I  don't  go  to  see  my  father,"  said  the  young  man,  flush- 
ing a  little,  "  I  can't  afford  it.  You  see,  I  get  a  hundred  and 
twenty  pounds  a  year,  and  a  little  brick-built  cottage  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  road.  And  I  work  for  the  money, 
as  the  directors  will  tell  you.  Also,  the  superintendent  is 
pleased  with  me.  But  if  I  went  to  my  father's  house,  Three 
Ridings,  once  or  twice,  the  butler  and  the  head  keeper  would 
expect  half  my  salary.  Besides,  once  when  I  was  hard  up 
I — I  pawned " 

"  You  pawned  what?  "  said  Pat  with  a  glitter  of  appre- 
ciation.   "  I  begin  to  like  you  Athabascans." 

"  I  pawned  my  dress  suit!  " 

Pat  McGhie  stopped.  She  looked  at  the  tall,  solidly 
built,  upstanding  young  man  in  amazement.  He  was  in 
noways  moved  or  ashamed.  It  seemed  to  him  an  everyday 
sort  of  transaction. 

He  nodded  merely  and  touched  his  cheek,  which,  aristo- 
cratic enough  in  curve  and  outline,  like  that  of  some  carven 
Crusader,  had  still  a  certain  matt  duskiness  of  tint  which 
told  of  Indian  blood  not  far  off. 

He  looked  straight  and  quietly  into  the  girl's  eyes. 

"  They  say  you  are  to  marry  my  father?  "  The  words 
came  slowly. 

"  He  has  asked  me,"  said  Patricia,  feeling  curiously  as 
if  she  were  reading  a  conversation  printed  in  a  book. 

"Ah!"  said  the  young  assistant  superintendent,  "I 
congratulate  you.  He  is  a  good  man.  It  would  have  pleased 
my  mother  very  much." 

Pat  started,  and  almost  drew  back  from  the  quiet,  grave- 
faced  young  man.  It  seemed  that  he  must  be  laughing 
at  her. 

"  You  mean?  " 

"  My  mother  was  a  squaw,  a  full-blood  Sioux  squaw. 
159 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

She  always  told  me  that  the  happiest  time  of  her  life  was 
when  she  was  out  along  with  my  father  in  the  Land  of  the 
Little  Sticks,  and  had  to  carry  the  poles  for  their  tent.  But 
when  she  was  dying,  she  said  that  it  would  be  very  good  for 
him  to  marry  a  white  woman  and  have  to  carry  her  tent 
poles!  " 

A  flash  of  a  strange  mirth  flickered  up  in  Patricia's 
face. 

"  Then  /  may  be  your  stepmother.  Shake,  sonny!  "  she 
said. 

And  she  held  out  her  slim  fingers,  which  the  young  man 
took  gravely,  bent  over,  and  kissed. 

"Hello!"  cried  Pat,  surprised,  "where  did  you  learn 
that?  Something  more  of  your  mother's  people?  Or  did 
you  pawn  your  bashfulness  along  with  your  dress  suit?" 

"  Where  I  come  from,"  said  the  young  man  with  the 
first  touch  of  accent  in  his  voice,  "  it  is  good  manners — of 
the  best!  It  is  always  done,  especially  to — to  ladies  of  one's 
own  family !  " 

"  Ah,"  said  Pat  with  a  curious  shortening  of  breath, 
as  if  the  air  had  grown  unaccountably  rarefied,  "  don't  you 
think  you  are  a — a  little  too  previous  ?  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Mr.  Hearne  Mackenzie  se- 
dately. 

"You  mean  I  am  certain  to  accept  your  father!"  she 
said,  unaccountably  angered  by  his  taking  so  much  for 
granted. 

"  I  understood  that — it  was  arranged !  "  he  answered 
calmly. 

"  Then  you  will  have  to  get  your  dress  suit  out  for  the 
occasion !  "  she  said  with  some  spite,  which  the  next  instant 
she  recognized  as  petty. 

"  Ah,  no,"  he  answered  with  reflective  sadness,  "  my 
160 


"HEARNE  MACKENZIE"  REFORMATORY 

father's  concerns  do  not  concern  me!  Nor  mine  him!  Be- 
sides, the  dress  suit  belongs  to  the  wrong  side  of  my  family 
tree,  the  side  I  have  the  least  sympathy  with.  If  I  reverted 
to  the  past,  it  would  be  to  the  pony,  the  fringed  blanket,  the 
Remington,  not  to  the  dress  suit!  " 

Pat  McGhie  held  out  her  hand. 

"  My  grandfather,"  she  said  quietly,  "  was  a  cattle 
drover,  and  to  this  day  I  never  see  a  lot  of  cattle  bunching 
on  the  road,  pushing  and  horning  together,  but  I  long  to 
be  in  among  them  with  a  tight  rein  and  the  stock  of  my 
whip!  " 

"  But,"  said  the  young  man,  "  I  thought  that  you  were 
proud  and  of  a  most  distinguished  family?" 

Patricia  shrugged  her  shoulders  very  slightly. 

"  So  I  am — on  one  side,  the  cattle  drovers',"  she  said 
smiling ;  "  the  rest  are  all  Egham  Boreham-Egham !  But 
don't  let  us  talk  any  more  about  myself.  How's  the 
Kid?" 

"Alexander  McGhie?"  said  the  assistant  superintend- 
ent, in  his  official  manner.  "  He  is  promising  well.  To  have 
passed  through  such  hands  as  those  of  Knifer  Jackson  and 
Corn  Beef  Jo,  the  man  in  whose  company  he  was  last  seen, 
he  carries  with  him  astonishingly  little  of  the  trade-mark 
of  crime!  There  is  generally  something,  probably  something 
physical,  which  marks  the  boys  we  get.  It  shows  in  the 
face  as  if  the  blood  were  not  a  right  red  within,  but  a 
kind  of  pale-gray  puce-color." 

"  Soap  and  water?  "  suggested  Pat. 

"  Partially,"  agreed  the  assistant  superintendent,  giving 
the  matter  his  consideration,  "  but  not  wholly  or  even 
■principally.  See  the  boys  in  a  mass  before  you,  day  by  day,  as 
I  do.  You  know  they  are  clean.  You  know  they  cannot 
help  being  clean.    But  the  livid  gray-puce  look  is  there.    And 

161 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

it  takes  a  boy  five  full  years  to  get  rid  of  it  up  on  our 
moors — that,  and  the  f urtiveness  of  the  eye !  " 

The  "  Hearne  Mackenzie,"  as  it  was  called  from  its 
principal  benefactor,  sat  high  up  on  the  level  moorland.  All 
about  it  was  peat  and  heather,  with  isles  and  peninsulas  of 
green  pine  wood,  their  roots  striking  down  through  the 
crumbly  purple  soil  to  the  underlying  and  eternal  moisture 
of  the  peat  bog.  The  Hearne  Mackenzie  Reformatory, 
with  all  its  buildings,  workshops,  annexes,  playgrounds,  the 
houses  of  the  officers,  floated,  as  it  were,  on  the  thin  skin  of 
dry  peat  land  above  the  great  morass  of  the  maw. 

"  Yet  it  is  healthy,"  said  the  assistant  superintendent  as 
he  piloted  his  future  stepmother,  younger  than  himself  by  ten 
years,  across  the  deep  cuttings  from  which,  in  the  time  of 
a  former  sub-superintendent,  many  cubic  yards  had  been 
removed  to  make  compressed  peat. 

"  There  is  something  antiseptic  about  this  black  bog 
land,  even  if  you  are  only  living  above  it.  It  is  just  '  tundra.' 
One  might  call  it  the  Barren  Grounds,  just  as  much  as 
though  it  were  well  within  the  Arctic  circle.  And  yet  the 
winds  blow  everything  away — healthiest  place  in  the  British 
Islands!  I  chose  it  myself.  And  my  boys  are  the  happiest 
lads — all  on  their  way  to  do  well." 

"  How  do  you  get  on  with  your  superintendent?  "  asked 
Pat. 

"Oh,  Carvel,  he's  all  right,"  said  the  assistant;  "more 
than  that,  he's  the  best  man  that  God  ever  created — better 
than  my  father — better  than  any  of  those  old  patriarchs 
and  things  in  the  Bible.  Though  that  is  what  he  looks  like, 
too,  with  his  white  beard  and  clear  blue  eyes,  and  a  smile 
like  a  boy.  I  saw  him  at  leapfrog  the  other  day,  and  would 
have  liked  to  join  him  if  I  had  not  been  too  old!  " 

162 


"HEARNE    MACKENZIE"    REFORMATORY 

"  How  old  is  he,  then?  "  Pat  asked  to  her  own  astonish- 
ment, rather  jealously. 

"  He  is  somewhere  about  sixty-three — I  am  thirty-one. 
But  I  am  almost  too  old  for  him  to  have  about.  I  might  be 
his  grandfather!  The  boys  adore  him,  though.  There  are 
no  rebellions,  no  big  fights,  when  Carvel  is  about." 

"  '  I  prescribe  walking-stick  plaster,  locally  applied,  im- 
mediately and  copiously!  And  I'll  do  it  myself!'  That's 
what  he  says  when  any  trouble  is  reported.  And  he  picks 
up  '  Clickie,'  his  trusty  blackthorn,  and  wades  in.  The 
riot  is  quelled  in  precisely  three  warm  minutes.  Everyone 
is  satisfied,  and  when  good  old  Mrs.  Carvel  appears  on  the 
scene  with  the  sticking  plaster  and  good  advice,  '  Clickie  '  is 
replaced  in  the  corner,  and  the  boys  disperse  to  discuss  who 
got  the  completest  '  lundering.'  There  is  never  much  to 
choose,  however,  and  if  by  chance  a  boy  who  did  not  deserve 
it  gets  '  one  of  himself,'  he  is  the  proudest  boy  in  the  school." 

"  But  why  are  you  assistant  superintendent  and  Mr. 
Carvel  over  you?"  demanded  Pat.  "  I  thought  it  was  you 
who  built  all  this.     It  is  called  after  you,  isn't  it?  " 

"After  my  father!"  said  Lord  Athabasca's  only  son 
dutifully,  "  and  Carvel  is  superintendent  because  he  is 
leagues  away  the  better  man — the  only  man  for  the  post, 
indeed.     I  nominated  him  myself!  " 

Patricia  looked  at  the  dusky,  unmoved  face  of  her  com- 
panion. Certainly  he  was  a  most  remarkable  young  man, 
and,  yes — handsome.     Not  that  that  mattered. 

In  the  interior  of  the  "  Hearne  Mackenzie,"  the  Kid 
hoed  his  first  row.  He  had  been  taken  in  hand  by  a  lank 
boy  of  fourteen,  familiarly  called  Swanker,  in  the  dialect 
of  the  schools  and  workshops.  On  the  roll  his  name  was 
Henry  Pott,  and  his  number  579.  The  Kid's  number  was 
666,  and  that  was  marked  in  red  on  every  shirt  and  sock, 

163 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

on  every  article  of  clothing,  tool  and  book  which  he  was 
allowed  to  possess. 

The  Kid's  name  was  promptly  changed  to  "  Beast," 
because,  as  one  more  Bible-learned  than  the  rest  pointed 
out,  666  was  the  number  of  the  beast.  So  the  Kid  was 
immediately,  and  without  prejudice,  earmarked  accordingly. 

"  Say,  Beast,"  said  the  Swanker,  "  have  ye  ony  to- 
bacco? " 

"  No,"  said  Kid  McGhie,  "  it's  nasty  stuff!  " 

"  Maybe  aye  and  maybe  no,"  said  the  Swanker.  "  You'll 
learn.  There's  them  in  the  school  that'll  punce  you  for  no 
bringin'  tobacco !     What  are  ye  in  for  ?  " 

"  Let  them  punce,"  said  the  Kid.     "  I  can  punce  back." 

The  Swanker  regarded  the  little  fellow  with  contempt. 

"  Can  you  stop  a  shoulder  hit?  "  he  demanded,  delivering 
a  righthander  straight  at  the  Kid's  nose  just  to  try. 

The  Kid  ducked,  feinted  low,  and  the  next  moment  the 
Swanker  felt  a  sudden  and  most  astounding  jolt  on  the 
point  of  his  chin,  which  made  him  thankful  that  he  wore 
no  false  teeth,  so  that  he  could  not  swallow  them.  The 
Swanker  first  of  all  looked  round  to  see  that  no  bigger  boy 
had  hit  him  a  stinger  at  unawares.  Then  his  eye  fell  on  the 
Kid. 

"Did  you  do  that?"  he  said,  glowering  at  him.  The 
Kid  nodded. 

"Want  me  to  do  it  again?"  he  remarked,  squaring  up. 

"  Well,  no,"  said  the  Swanker,  as  if  reluctantly  declin- 
ing through  pressure  of  engagements,  "  not  at  present,  that 
is.  But  who  taught  you  that?  It's  regular  'pro'  work, 
that  is!" 

"  Knifer  Jackson  taught  me,"  said  the  Kid,  quite  ignorant 
of  the  interest  he  would  cause  by  the  statement;  "he's  my 
father!" 

164 


"HEARNE    MACKENZIE"    REFORMATORY 

"  Ger-r-r  'long!"  said  the  Swanker  between  his  teeth, 
"  what  you  givin'  us?  " 

"  The  truth,"  said  the  Kid.  "  You're  not  used  to  it— 
that's  all!" 

"  Then  you  are  in  here  for  runnin'  with  Knifer  Jack- 
son and  the  '  Blind  Jacob's  '  boys?  " 

The  Kid  nodded.  "Worse  luck!"  he  said.  "Five 
years!  " 

The  Swanker  whistled  and  reached  for  the  wet  clout 
with  which  the  Kid  was  swabbing  the  dormitory  floor. 

"  No  use  for  you  to  waste  your  time  at  this  sort  o' 
thing,"  he  said.  "  Why,  if  what  you  say  is  true — an'  we'll 
soon  find  that  out — you're  away  up !  Soarin' !  Why,  Knifer 
and  Corn  Beef  are  at  the  very  head  of  the  '  pro.'  You  was 
nabbed  with  him,  was  ye?  Ah,  that  would  be  a  big  job,  or 
the  Knifer  would  not  have  put  him  on  to  it.  Where  did 
it  happen — Egham  Castle?  Why,  that's  quite  near  here — 
just  over  the  wall — you  can  see  the  pinnacle  of  the  stable, 
gilt  weathercock  and  all,  out  of  '  choko.'  " 

"And  what  is  'choko'  when  he's  at  home?  It  means 
prison,  I  know,  but  they  don't  put  you  in  prison  here,  do 
they?" 

"  Oh,  don't  they — you'll  find  out  whether  or  no  before 
you  are  many  days  older,"  laughed  the  Swanker ;  "  but  I 
daresay  it  will  be  made  plum  easy  for  you  that's  no  end  of 
a  swell  and  can  get  your  people  to  '  butter  '  the  warder  and 
especially  old  Grainer,  the  schoolmaster.  He's  the  only  real 
bad  egg  here!  " 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  asked  the  Kid,  always  eager  for 
knowledge. 

"  If  you've  got  money,  or  people  coming  to  see  you, 
said  Swanker,  "you've  got  to  get  them  to  slide  something 
on  the  quiet  to  Grainer,  or  he'll  half  kill  you  in  school. 

165 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

The  supe — ?  Oh,  old  Carvel — he's  the  clean  peeled  potato, 
mealy  to  the  core,  and  enough  eyes  to  him  to  set  a  drill !  " 

Swanker  was  one  of  the  field  boys  and  interested  in 
agriculture. 

"  Carvel  is  never  nasty,"  he  continued.  "  He  whacks 
you  like  carpet  beating  sometimes  when  there's  a  row.  And 
he's  not  half  particular  whether  it's  you  that's  done  it  or 
not,  so  long  as  he  gets  it  stopped.  But  the  boys  would 
most  of  them  lay  down  their  lives  for  Carvel.  And  as 
for  Cherokee  Bob — that's  Mr.  Hearne,  him  that  built  all 
this,  and  works  harder  than  anybody — he's  maybe  a  bit  soft, 
chip  out  o'  his  cockernut,  I  bet,  or  he  wouldn't  stay  in  such 
a  hole.  But  there's  hardly  a  fellow,  except  Snout  and 
Smutty,  that  would  try  to  queer  him.  He's  a  tripper,  too, 
at  football  and  games,  is  Mr.  Hearne." 

The  Swanker  went  off  to  tell  the  news  to  the  school, 
and  after  prayers  the  Kid,  under  his  new  name  and  number, 
was  introduced  to  the  boys  and  received  the  right  hand  of  fel- 
lowship. "  St.  Jacob's  "  was,  of  course,  the  first  subject  of 
conversation. 

"  How  many  doors  can  you  do?"  they  asked  him. 

"All,"  said  the  Kid  modestly;  "and  safes,  too,  if  I  get 
a  help  at  the  last  tug,  where  weight  tells.  I'm  not  quite  big 
enough,  you  see." 

"  Hello,"  cried  some  of  those  who  did  not  know  the 
capabilities  of  a  graduate  and,  as  it  were,  "  fellow  "  of  "  St. 
Jacob's,"  "  d'ye  mean  to  say  that  you  could  open  that  dor- 
mitory door  of  ours  with  the  warder  on  the  other  side?  " 

The  Kid  cast  one  glance  at  the  heavy  door. 

"  I've  done  with  that  business,"  he  said  sweetly.  "  I'm 
in  documents  and  pedigrees  now.  But  that  door — why, 
just  for  once  as  an  exhibition  game — I  don't  mind!" 

He  looked  about  him  for  a  tool.  These  were  naturally 
166 


"HEARNE    MACKENZIE"    REFORMATORY 

scarce  at  the  "  Hearne  Mackenzie,"  for  the  class  of  boy  and 
his  antecedents  had  been  studied  with  some  care.  But  fancy 
work  of  a  simple  sort  was  not  discouraged.  Boys  were 
allowed,  under  certain  restrictions  as  to  delivering  up  all 
wool,  used  and  unused,  to  knit  their  own  stockings. 

"  No  use  this,"  said  the  Kid,  picking  up  a  steel  knitting 
needle,  "  too  stiff.  Ah,  there—"  a  little  coil  of  copper 
wire  from  the  shops  caught  his  eye.  He  untwisted  a  couple 
of  handbreadths,  broke  it  off  short,  did  some  folding,  and  lo! 
the  skeleton  of  a  key.  He  fumbled  a  moment,  touching  and 
trying,  then  suddenly  straightened  a  piece  of  the  copper  wire, 
gave  it  a  cunning  hook — click — and  the  door  was  open! 

The  boys  of  No.  7  dormitory  rushed  tumultously 
toward  the  black  cavern  of  the  outer  passage.  But  the  Kid 
was  too  quick  for  them. 

With  a  second  twist  of  his  wire  he  fastened  the  door  as 
before,  pulled  the  wire  straight,  and  bound  it  about  the 
bundle. 

"  No,  you  don't,"  he  said,  "  I  am  not  going  to  sleep 
in  '  choko '  for  attempted  escape,  this  first  night,  at  any 
rate!  " 

"  Bah,  you're  afraid,  that's  what  you  are,"  said  Smutty, 
a  boy  of  fourteen,  undersized,  tobacco  chewing,  who  thrust 
his  head  pugnaciously  forward  at  the  Kid;  "  open  that  door 
again  or  I'll  make  you!  " 

"Open  it  yourself,"  said  McGhie's  Kid,  "there's  the 
key!  "     And  he  pointed  to  the  coil  of  wire  in  the  corner. 

Smutty  replied  with  a  heavy  blow  at  the  Kid's  mouth, 
which,  however,  the  boy  had  no  difficulty  in  parrying  in- 
stinctively. The  Kid  had  not  been  brought  up  with  Mad 
Mag,  and  within  reach  of  her  hand,  to  be  thus  caught  nap- 
ping.   The  boys  of  No.  7  dormitory  gathered  eagerly  round. 

"A  fight — a  fight!"  they  cried. 
167 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

But  at  that  moment  the  bushy  reddish  beard  and  glau- 
cous green-gray  protuberant  eyes  of  Warder  McPherson 
showed  themselves  at  the  wicket,  which  he  had  opened  noise- 
lessly. 

"  Smutty,"  he  said,  "  report  to  me  to-morrow  morning! 
And  you,  New  Boy,  you've  begun  badly,  fighting  your  first 
night.  If  you  go  on  like  this,  you'll  get  cells.  You'll  sleep 
on  the  thing!     Mind,  I  warn  you." 

This  was  Warder  McPherson's  word.  He  always  re- 
ferred to  the  plank  bed  as  the  "  thing." 

"  Don't  mind  him,"  said  Swanker,  "  learn  your  drill  per- 
fect, and  stand  up  like  a  railway  signal  whenever  old  Pher- 
son  sees  you.  Make  your  hand  go  up  to  your  cap  just  as 
if  it  was  a  piece  of  wood,  and  you'll  have  no  trouble  with 
old  Pherson.  He  roars  like  a  bull,  but  he's  all  little  woolly 
lamb  inside!  He  won't  even  tickle  up  Smutty  to-morrow 
morning — which  is  a  pity!  " 

They  got  into  their  bunks,  which  were  arranged  side  by 
side,  in  long  rows.  There  was  a  big  lamp  which  burned  all 
night  in  each  of  the  dormitories,  and  the  window  into  the 
warder's  bedroom  was  unblinded. 

"  Better  get  to  sleep,  Beast,"  said  Swanker  in  a  friendly 
fashion,  "  you've  got  a  jolly  busy  day  before  you  to-morrow. 
You've  got  to  face  Grainer.  He'll  most  likely  wollop  you. 
He's  always  down  on  the  newcomers  till  their  people  grease 
his  palm.  Then  you  have  to  go  into  the  shops  and  start 
work.  Shoemaking  is  best,  that  is,  till  you  get  marked 
1  trustworthy  '  like  me.  Then  you  get  promoted  to  the  farm. 
That's  best  of  all.  Last,  you've  got  to  fight  Smutty.  He's 
older  than  you  a  bit,  but  I  think  you  will  surprise  him. 
Don't  let  him  come  to  grips,  that's  all.  Then,  he  would 
smash  you  in  no  time !  " 

"  But,"  said  the  Kid,  glancing  at  the  long  rows  of  little 
168 


"HEARNE    MACKENZIE"    REFORMATORY 

iron  beds,  and  the  great  glaring  lantern  above,  "  I  can't  get 
to  sleep  with  that  big  lamp  up  there.  Do  they  never  put  it 
out?" 

"  Never,"  said  the  Swanker,  "  and  the  sooner  you  learn 
to  sleep  with  the  light  in  your  eyes  the  better.  You've  got 
five  years  of  it — or  at  the  least,  three  and  three-quarters, 
if  you  turn  out  a  prime  first-class  reformed  article  and 
the  Cherokee  takes  you  out  with  him  to  his  farm  in 
Canada!" 

"Good  night,  Swanker,  and  thank  you!"  said  the  Kid. 

The  boy  in  the  next  bed  stared  in  astonishment. 

"  Well,  you  are  a  caution,  Beast,"  he  said  in  almost  an 
affectionate  tone.  "  I  suppose  it's  the  pedigree  work  that 
does  it.  One  would  think  you  had  been  at  a  toffs'  school, 
and  worn  a  topper — fancy  thanking  me!  Why,  nobody  ever 
thanks  anybody  for  anything  at  the  '  Peat '  Reformatory ! 
So  don't  you  do  it,  else  you'll  get  welted — and  that  fre- 
quent! " 

"  I'll  try  to  remember!  "  said  the  Kid.  "  But,  you  see, 
my  father  taught  me  when  I  was  little.  It's  awkward  to 
get  out  of!  " 

"What,  the  Knifer  learned  you  to  say  'Thank'ee'?" 

"  No,  not  the  Knifer — my  own  real  father,  David  Mc- 
Ghie  of  Back  Mill  Lands!  "  said  the  Kid. 

The  Swanker  uttered  a  snort  of  disgust. 

"  There  have  I  been  telling  the  boys  all  about  your 
father — how  he's  Jackson — Knifer  Jackson,  mind  you,  and 
nobody  else.  You're  having  a  jolly  good  start,  mind  you, 
along  o'  him.  And  don't  you  forget  that,  young  Beast! 
Knifer  Jackson's  a  good  enough  father  for  anybody  in  the 
old  'Peat.'  Why,  you  are  a  credit  to  No.  7,  and  the 
other  dormies  are  just  sweatin'  with  rage.  There'll  be 
a  fine  row  one  0'  them  nights  after  prayers!  And  now  to 
12  169 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

go  and  yarn  about  your  own  real  father!     Pagh!     Don't 
let  me  hear  you  at  it  again,  that's  all,  young  Beast !  " 

"  I'll  try  to  remember!  "  said  the  Kid  meekly.  And  so, 
after  staring  long  at  the  barred  windows  and  the  naked 
light  flaring  and  smelling  high  overhead,  he  dropped  asleep. 
His  first  day  as  a  reformatory  boy  was  over. 


170 


CHAPTER  XIII 

SOME  WALKS   ON   THE   MOOR 

T'S  a  little  Commonwealth,  you  see — self- 
contained,  self-centered,  sufficient  unto  it- 
self," said  the  assistant  superintendent  to 
his  usual  companion,  after  he  had  met  her 
on  the  moor,  by  the  little  pond  over  which 
the  tall  green-black  Scotch  firs  whooed  and  sighed  all  the 
short  Scottish  winter  afternoons. 

The  young  man  was  talking,  as  usual,  about  his  beloved 
"  Hearne  Mackenzie,"  into  which  he  had  put  his  fortune, 
such  as  it  was — without  drawing  from  it  a  farthing  beyond 
the  £120  and  free  house,  which  was  the  living  wage  of  the 
deputy  superintendent. 

"  I  know,"  he  said,  "  I  am  not  a  very  ambitious  young 
man.  Perhaps  there  are  places  where  I  could  influence  more 
people.  But  nowhere  so  directly.  And  two  hundred  boys 
of  the  criminal  classes,  or  having  alliances  with  them,  need 
a  man  to  look  after  them,  and  give  them  all  his  time.  Well, 
I  am  that  man !  " 

"  I  do  not  see,"  said  Patricia,  still  unconvinced.  "  If  you 
had  agreed  with  your  father,  you  might  have  had  the  means 
to  build  a  score  of  reformatories  such  as  this." 

"  Yes,  and  lost  my  own  soul  money  making!  "  said  Mr. 
Hearne  Mackenzie.     "  No — "  he  went  on  hastily,  as  if  he 

171 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

did  not  wish  to  argue  the  point — "  I  go  my  way — he  goes 
his.  We  even  appreciate  one  another,  and  I  am  glad  to 
think  that,  at  the  election  for  assistant  superintendent,  when 
I  was  appointed,  I  had  my  father's  vote !  " 

"  It  is  certainly  a  pleasant  thought,"  said  Patricia,  "  that 
if  I  marry  your  father,  I  shall  have  so  equal-minded  and 
dutiful  a  son!  " 

With  the  least  flutter  of  the  eyelashes  upward  as  she 
spoke,  Patricia  noted  the  effect  of  the  appellation  on  the 
tall,  grave,  handsome  young  man  who  walked  beside  her. 

Mr.  Hearne  Mackenzie  winced  palpably.  At  first  he 
had  entered  into  the  jest,  and  it  had  been  a  continual  source 
of  amusement  to  them — this  pretty  girl  with  the  dark  clus- 
tering curls  laid  low  on  the  neck,  and  the  swarthy  cavalier 
with  the  head  like  an  antique  design  graven  on  a  signet 
ring — to  call  each  other  "  mother  "  and  "  son." 

But  somehow  of  late  the  jest  had  lost  its  flavor.  Virtue 
had  gone  out  of  it,  so  far  as  Hearne  Mackenzie  was  con- 
cerned. A  young  girl,  a  sweet  girl,  to  wed  a  man  thrice  her 
age,  and  that  man  his  father!  It  was  a  shame — just  because 
she  was  heiress  of  the  great  old  house  of  Boreham-Egham. 
Sometimes  at  night  Hearne  could  not  sleep  for  thinking  of 
it,  and  would  get  up  and  wander  out  under  the  moon,  or 
in  the  blacker  dark,  stumbling  blindly  over  the  face  of  the 
moorland,  and — had  the  man  not  been  his  own  father — he 
would  have  known  what  to  do.  The  Indian  strain  told 
him  that.     Yet  Patricia  seemed  to  make  no  objection. 

Still  they  continued  to  meet  every  day.  In  that  gloomy 
winter  landscape — the  frost-bound  peat  bog,  the  dark  up- 
standing pines  that  broke  the  force  of  the  blast,  her  eyes 
shone  like  the  fish-pools  that  are  in  Heshbon. 

"Oculi  tu'i  sicut  piscina  in  Hesebon"  he  used  to  repeat  to 
himself;  for  he  had  been  trained  by  the  Jesuits  in  Montreal, 

172 


SOME    WALKS    ON    THE    MOOR 

and  had  read  the  Vulgate — "  as  the  crystalline  stanks  of 
Heshbon  " — so  the  Spaniards  have  it. 

Anon  he  would  be  angry,  and  rage  very  furiously,  and 
then  be  angry  with  himself  for  being  angry.  After  all,  what 
affair  was  it  of  his?  He  had  chosen  his  path  in  life,  and  all 
that  remained  for  him  was  to  tread  it. 

He  was  a  fool,  and  knew  it.  Thrice  a  fool  to  let  a  girl 
without  any  heart,  a  girl  who  was  willing  to  sell  herself 
for  a  poor  worthless  title,  interfere  with  his  life.  This  made 
him  angriest  of  all.  And,  quite  contrary  to  his  nature,  he 
raged  out  there,  this  swarthy,  grave,  melancholy  assistant 
superintendent  of  the  "  Hearne  Mackenzie  "   Reformatory. 

Meanwhile  Lord  Athabasca  came  almost  daily  to  the 
castle.  He  did  not  always  see  Patricia.  The  girl  had  a 
curious  gift  of  vanishing.  Hammer  had  ordered  game-keep- 
ers to  keep  an  eye  on  her  goings.  But  then  Hammer  was 
not  a  popular  person  outside  the  Castle  of  Egham,  and  was 
obeyed  only  with  eye  service. 

If  Miss  Patricia  were  seen  walking  with  a  young  man, 
across  the  far-brown  distances  of  the  moor,  or  sauntering 
across  the  screen  of  the  fir-tree  glades,  every  maidservant  in 
the  house  thought  the  more  of  her  for  it,  and  hoped  that 
after  all  she  would  not  have  to  marry  that  stout  old  lord 
who  came  to  see  her  so  regularly,  under  the  protection  and 
sanction  of  Hammer. 

The  situation  was  clearly  enough  understood,  and  the 
gardeners  and  foresters  speculated  in  their  boothies  on  how 
much  Lord  Athabasca,  a  liberal  man  on  the  shoot,  would 
give  Hammer  for  helping  on  his  marriage.  Ten  thousand 
was  the  favorite  figure,  chiefly  on  account  of  the  roundness 
of  the  sum.     It  was  also  an  unusually  correct  estimate. 

Meanwhile  the  formalities  were  proceeded  with.  Pa- 
173 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

tricia  McGhie  became  by  poll  deed  Miss  Patricia  Egham- 
Boreham-Egham,  and  her  uncle  signed  formal  acts  of  adop- 
tion and  heirship.  The  wedding  day  was  fixed  for  the 
twenty-fifth  of  February,  and  Lord  Athabasca  was  to  have 
his  yacht — it  was  often  mistaken  for  a  liner — at  Marseilles. 
My  lady  and  her  husband  would  set  out  at  once  for  a  long 
cruise  among  the  Balearics  and  the  Greek  Isles. 

"  For  I  would  see  before  I  die, 

The  palms  and  temples  of  the  South!  " 

chanted  Pat. 

She  did  not  think  very  much  about  Lord  Athabasca. 
The  only  thing  that  bothered  her  was  what  she  would  say 
to  him  at  meals — especially  at  breakfast  the  first  morning. 
This  troubled  her  somewhat.  She  resolved  that  she  would 
get  him  to  teach  her  Spanish,  which  both  he  and  his  son 
spoke  like  their  mother  tongue.  That  would  always  be  an 
interest. 

But  little  by  little  something  rose  up  in  the  girl's  heart — 
dinning  constantly,  not  loud,  but  insistent.  It  said  that  if 
it  had  been — another — she  would  not  have  needed  to  think 
about  subjects  of  conversation.  For  instance — Hearne  Mac- 
kenzie ! 

So  it  was  with  her  sister.  So  it  would  not  be  with  her- 
self. Away  back  there,  behind  the  hills  of  the  South,  within 
sound  of  the  Messan  Water  gurgling  full  with  the  winter 
rains,  Marthe  and  Mr.  Symington  were  happily  engaged  in 
house  furnishing.  Mr.  P.  Brydson  McGhie  had  given 
Marthe  £200  with  a  very  curt  blessing.  Her  mother  had 
slipped  another  hundred  out  of  her  silent  economies. 
Mr.  S5'mington  had  laid  aside  another  couple  of  hun- 
dreds. Marthe  was  a  happy  girl.  All  day  long  she  was 
busied   with  a  foot  rule,   and   sheets  on  sheets  of  calcula- 

174 


SOME    WALKS    ON    THE    MOOR 

tion — curtains,  carpets,  hangings.  How  much  of  this — how 
little  of  that?  There  were  few  happier  times  for  practical, 
housewifely,  motherly  little  Marthe. 

She  missed  Pat  to  "  boss  "  her  and,  a  little  also,  to  say 
"Oh,  Pat,  how  can  you?"  to — when  Pat  came  out  with 
some  of  her  wild  sayings. 

Patricia  had  come  to  Kirkmessan  once  or  twice.  But 
somehow  she  appeared  to  Marthe  and  Baby  Lant  to  be  older, 
sadder,  and  altogether  another  person. 

"  Heiressing  doesn't  seem  to  agree  with  you,  Pat,"  said 
Baby  Lant.  "Why,  what  is  the  matter?  Is  it  my  lord? 
He  is  old,  it  is  true — but  you  remember  what  you  used  to 
say  of  husbands — that  the  older  they  were,  the  more  tender 
they  would  be,  just  like  legs  of  mutton  hung  in  the  meat 
safe !  " 

"Oh,  Baby  Lant!"  cried  Marthe.  "Remember,  Pa- 
tricia is  going  to  marry  Lord  Athabasca!  You  should  not 
speak  like  that !  " 

"  Oh,  bother,"  cried  Baby  Lant,  fighting  petulantly  with 
the  corner  of  a  sofa  cushion  which  she  could  not  get  to  her 
mind,  "  Pat  may  do  as  she  likes.  She  is  an  heiress  now,  in 
her  own  right,  but  she  need  not  oppress  her  family  before- 
hand with  her  greatness!  " 

And  it  shows  the  difference  that  had  come  over  Patricia, 
that  she  took  no  part  in  the  battle  of  words — in  which,  of 
course,  Marthe  found  herself  absurdly  overmatched  by  Baby 
Lant.  On  the  whole,  Patricia's  father  and  mother  were 
satisfied  with  the  change  in  their  daughter. 

"  I  knew  Patricia  would  settle  down,"  said  her  mother. 
"  She  is  quite  my  lady  already." 

"  It's  a  great  thing  that  I  have  finished  my  family  tree," 
said  her  father,  "  and  that  there  only  remains  to  wait  for 
next  year's  issue  of  Sir  Brian's  '  Peerage,  Baronetage,  and 

175 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

Landed  Gentry,'  where  my  chiefship  of  the  Clan  McGhie 
will  be  fully  admitted.  I  am  having  a  copy  of  the  whole 
account  properly  illuminated  on  vellum  with  all  the  armorial 
bearings,  and  it  shall  be  my  present  to  the  bridegroom.  I 
have  ordered  an  ivory  casket  to  contain  it!  " 

But,  secretly  to  her  fiance,  Marthe  mourned  over  her 
sister. 

"  Willie,"  she  said,  "  I  wish  I  could  make  Patricia  out. 
She  is  going  to  marry  this  old  man,  and  I  just  know  she 
won't  be  happy  with  him.  He  is  three  times  her  age — and 
just  fancy,  he  has  a  son  older  than  she  is — ten  years  older! 
He  has  quarreled  with  him,  too,  and  does  not  allow  him  a 
farthing.  I  don't  think  it  is  at  all  nice,  do  you?  By  the 
way,  what  do  you  think  I  am  going  to  have  for  the  curtains 
of  our  room?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Willie,  smiling  happily.  "  Beams 
of  cedar,  rafters  of  fir,  curtains  of  Solomon,  I  suppose!  " 

"Oh,  no!"  said  heedless  little  Marthe.  "You  know 
very  well  that  there  are  no  rafters.  But  I've  had  the  ceil- 
ing painted  a  nice  light  green  to  match  the  paper,  and  I'm 
going  to  have  dimity  curtains — dimity,  Willie,  think  of  it! 
Doesn't  it  recall  all  sorts  of  pleasant  old  country  things  to 
you — cottages,  and  lilac  bushes,  and  girls  called  Prue  and 
their  sleeves  rolled  up,  all  baking  bread,  and  Cranford,  and 
M  ay  poles — and — an  d 

Marthe,  who  had  been  talking  very  fast — she  was  ex- 
cited— stopped,  completely  out  of  breath.  Then  Willie,  who 
had  his  moments  of  folly,  as  what  good  man  has  not,  con- 
tinued: 

"  Dorothy  and  Dimity  Caterwaul, 

They  both  went  down  to  the  Mew-sick  Hall; 
But  when  they  set  up  a  feline  wail, 

They  were  very  soon  lodged  in  Calton  Jail! " 

176 


SOME    WALKS    ON    THE    MOOR 

"  Oh,  Willie !  "  said  Marthe,  settling  herself  on — the 
chair — where  else,  if  you  please?  "And  you  a  minister! 
What  would  your  people  say?  " 

Marthe  saw  with  hope  before  her  a  long  exclamatory 
future  of  "Oh,  Willies,"  which — can  you  blame  her? — 
would  to  some  extent  make  up  for  the  loss  of  Patricia,  or  at 
least,  if  not  exactly  losing  her,  at  least  finding  her  encased 
in  the  great  lady,  as  her  mother  had  petrified  into  her  brown 
brocade. 

"  Oh,  Willie!  "  said  little  dimple-chinned  Marthe,  taking 
her  lover  by  both  ears,  "  I  am  so  glad  we  are  poor,  if  being 
rich  makes  people  like  what  Patricia  was  the  other  day — 
or  like  father  and  that  dreadful  old  lord  Pat  is  going  to 
marry.     Aren't  you  glad  we  are  poor,  Willie  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  am  reasonably  and  moderately  glad,  Marthe," 
said  Willie.  "If  we  were  twice  as  rich,  I  think  I  could 
bear  it,  by  sitting  up  nights  to  strengthen  my  mind.  But 
if  it  were  three  times " 

"  Now,"  said  Marthe,  "  you  are  laughing  at  me,  you 
bad  boy.  And  I'll  run  away.  You  always  do  laugh  at  me, 
and  I  don't  think  it's  fair.  But,  oh,  Willie,  I  am  so  glad 
that  you  are  not  old  nor  rich  nor  horrid — aren't  you?" 

"  On  these  personal  matters,"  said  Mr.  Symington 
gravely,  "  it  becomes  a  modest  man  to  be  silent." 

"  You  modest!  "  cried  laughing  Marthe.  "  Well,  I  like 
that !  Who  puts  on  a  clean  shirt  and  collar  and  tie  for  every 
week-night  service?     Answer  me  that!" 

"  Oh,  but,"  said  her  betrothed,  "  that's  your  fault, 
Marthe.  It's  just  because  you  are  always  there  in  the  front 
row  of  the  choir.  But  after — well,  one  change  of  linen  will 
last  me  a  week!  " 

"What!"  cried  Marthe,  up  in  arms  at  once.  "And 
have  them  all  saying  how  you  are  not  well  looked  after  when 

177 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

you  are  married !  They  look  fearfully,  particularly  at  a  min- 
ister, you  know.  And  those  Miss  Isbisters  that  have  always 
— oh,  yes  they  have — the  hateful  minxes!  They  are  regular 
nasty  catty  old  maids!  But  they  shan't  say  I  don't  dress  you 
properly.  Yes,  and  I'll  always  see  that  you  have  your  nicest 
cuff  links  on,  and — and " 

And  so  on — a  great  deal  more,  in  fact,  all  out  of  the 
speaking  abundance  of  Marthe's  simple,  clean,  loving  little 
heart.     And  happily  the  man  was  like  unto  her. 

God  keep  them  ever  so  simple  and  hopeful  and  forth 
looking,  even  though  Mistress  Marthe  does  not  quite  get 
over  all  her  little  spleens — they  are  very  little — against  the 
"  catty  "  Misses  Isbister,  whom  she  will  never  quite  forgive 
for  once  on  a  time  setting  their  caps  at  her  handsome  hus- 
band. As,  indeed,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it,  why  should 
she? 

So  they  were  married.  And,  on  the  whole,  lived  happily 
ever  after. 

Marthe  once  married,  Patricia  returned  to  Egham  Castle 
with  a  lightened  heart.  There  would  be  no  heiressing  for 
Marthe's  sake,  and  as  for  Baby  Lant — well,  as  in  her  own 
case,  Baby  Lant  could  look  out  for  herself. 

Atalanta  had  shown  no  signs  as  yet  of  throwing  the 
handkerchief.  But  when  she  did  there  would  be  plenty  of 
people  ready  to  pick  it  up.  So  much  Patricia  had  always 
known.  But  her  talks  with  her  younger  sister  on  the  eve  of 
the  marriage — Marthe's — had  shown  her  the  truth.  Baby 
Lant  was  a  wonderfully  pretty  girl,  and  of  a  heart  altogether 
untouched. 

"  It's  you  that  should  be  the  heiress,"  said  Pat  more  than 
once  to  her  sister.  "  You  would  not  in  the  least  mind  marry- 
ing an  old  man  with  a  title  and  yachts  and  things!  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  should,"  said  Baby  Lant,  cozying  down  on 
178 


SOME    WALKS    ON    THE    MOOR 

her  sister's  shoulder  to  be  petted.  "  I  would  rather  have 
half  a  dozen  people  about  me,  any  one  of  whom  I  can  marry 
if  I  like — rather  than  be  compelled  to  marry  any  particular 
one  whether  I  like  it  or  no!  " 

Which,  though  spoken  in  Baby  Lant's  sleepily  light 
way,  still  touched  the  essence  of  the  matter. 

The  day  of  the  twenty-fifth  of  February  was  a  great  one 
on  the  Egham  estates.  Lord  Athabasca's  property  lay  at 
some  little  distance,  and  was  scarcely  touched  by  the  loyalty, 
generations  old,  with  which  the  Egham  tenants,  long  an- 
chored to  their  holdings,  greeted  the  marriage  of  their  heir- 
ess to  a  real  lord  with  a  real  title.  His  age  was  hardly  held 
to  be  a  disadvantage. 

"Sixty-five,  is  he?"  said  one  of  the  old  goodwives. 
"  Ah,  well,  he'll  no  last  lang  wi'  a  young  wife,  mark  my 
words!  But  she'll  thrive  on't.  And  then — when  they  hae 
laid  him  awa'  decentlike  in  a  coffin — certes,  whatna  bonnie 
young  widow  she  will  mak' !  " 

The  Hammers  were  to  receive  their  agreed  amount 
on  the  morning  of  the  day  itself — £10,000  in  a  check 
payable  to  bearer  for  the  safe  delivery  of  one  heiress, 
warranted  sound  in  wind  and  limb,  and  embellished  with 
the  legal  and  spotless  names  of  Patricia  McGhie  Egham 
Boreham-Egham,  daughter  of  Patrick  Brydson  McGhie, 
Esq.,  J.  P.,  chief  of  that  name,  also  niece  and  heiress  of 
Philip  Egbert  Egham  Boreham-Egham  of  Egham  Castle. 

That  was  considered  a  pretty  good  match  for  a  recently 
made  colonial  peer,  who  had  formerly  been  wedded  to  a 
Red  Indian  squaw! 


179 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE   COMING    OF   THE    KINGDOM   OF    GOD    ON    MAW    MOSS 

CROSS  the  wide  brown  and  gray  spaces  of 
Maw  Moss  a  little  persistent  black  thing 
pushed  its  way.  It  appeared  either  a  man 
or  an  ant,  according  to  the  distance  and 
elevation  from  which  you  viewed  it.  Its 
stolid  persistence  in  a  direct  line  belonged  to  one  or  the 
other.  Now  there  are  common  black  ants,  and  black  ants 
which  look  as  if  they  wore  soft  hats  and  walked  with  a 
stick  and  a  stoop. 

But  ants  do  not  pull  up  on  a  knoll  top  and  solace  them- 
selves with  a  look  at  the  landscape.  Nor  do  they  mop  their 
heated  brows  with  red  handkerchiefs.  These  things  this 
particular  black  thing  did.  Also,  if  the  ant  meets  a  fir  tree 
or  a  fallen  rock  en  route  he  does  not  go  round,  but  climbs 
up  one  side  and  down  the  other.  If  another  ant  is  coming 
the  opposite  way  he  invariably  butts  his  head  against  him. 
Then  the  pair  rise  up  on  their  hind  legs  and  fight  it  out. 
These  things  this  black  thing  did  not  do. 

Therefore  the  black  thing  was  a  man,  not  an  ant. 

It  was,  in  fact,   Mr.  Molesay,  city  missionary,  on  the 

track  of  a  parishioner,  transplanted  to  another  and  a  better 

world — that  is  to  say,  the  Kid,  not  removed  to  a  cemetery 

or  "  planted  out  "  in  a  graveyard,  as  he  would  have  said 

180 


THE   KINGDOM  OF  GOD  ON  MAW   MOSS 

himself,  but  established  in  the  Hearne  Mackenzie  Home 
Colony  Reformatory,  a  spot  where  Mr.  Molesay  often  found 
waifs  and  strays  which  had  whizzed  off  centrifugally  from 
his  mission  in  the  Cowgate.  They  were  generally  attached 
to  a  snapping,  punching,  shoemaking  machine,  cross  legged 
on  a  tailoring  board,  or,  if  they  were  specially  lucky  and 
"  trustworthy,"  out  in  the  fields  which,  under  the  fostering 
care  of  the  assistant  superintendent,  were  growing  every  day 
in  size  and  importance  about  the  colony  which  his  money 
had  built  and  his  self-sacrifice  tended. 

Mr.  Molesay — for  obscure  family  reasons  not  Archibald 
but  Archbold  Molesay — found  Maw  Moss  a  very  wide 
place.  There  seemed  an  unconscionable  and  ridiculous 
amount  of  waste  sky  above  it,  to  one  who  for  twenty 
years  had  been  accustomed  to  a  narrow  irregular  jag  of 
blue  or  gray  seen  between  the  chimneys  and  the  tall 
houses  of  the  over  city,  actually  built  on  top  of  the 
Cowgate. 

"  God,  God,  God !  "  said  Mr.  Molesay,  looking  up  with 
his  hat  off.  "  That  is  God,  they  say,  that  cold  blue  space 
in  which  the  clouds  sail  so  silently.  If  it  were  so,  we  in 
the  Cowgate  would  have  little  chance.  For  we  cannot  see 
Him,  only  a  handbreadth  of  dirty  smoke,  a  black  smutty 
shelter  tent  from  which  the  rain  comes  plumping  down  with 
a  skoosh!  'The  Kingdom  of  God  is  within  you — the 
kingdom  of  God  is  within  you! 

Archbold  Molesay  repeated  low  to  himself  his  favorite 
text  and  shaded  his  eyes  from  the  glare  of  that  vast  expanse 
of  sky.  He  pulled  the  broad  soft  brim  lower  down,  and 
in  doing  so  he  became  aware  of  a  second  human  being  not 
very  far  away.  There  was  a  little  peat  stack,  "  like  a  bing 
of  paving  stones  when  they  mend  a  street,"  thought  the 
city   missionary,    and   by    it,   seated   on    a   "  tummock "    of 

181 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

rough  moorish  bent,  was  a  girl,  her  head  in  her  hands, 
sobbing. 

"  My  business!"  said  little  Mr.  Molesay,  looking  at 
the  girl  a  moment.  He  could  not  see  her  very  clearly.  He 
was  short  sighted,  and  made  a  poor  hand  at  getting  over 
country  in  a  district  crisscrossed  with  twenty-foot  peat  hags. 
But,  nevertheless,  he  was  at  her  side  in  a  moment.  Such 
was  his  reason  for  being. 

The  girl  did  not  hear  him  coming.  Peat  coomb  and 
growing  moss  deaden  sounds.  So  does  grief  which  rends 
the  heart  strings.  Suddenly  Patricia  looked  up.  She  felt  a 
hand  laid  on  her  shoulder.  It  made  her  violently  angry  to 
think  that  anyone  should  intrude,  especially — the  thought 
jerked  in  her  heart  like  a  trap  springing — Hearne  Mac- 
kenzie ! 

But  it  was  not  Hearne  Mackenzie.  Far  otherwise,  in- 
deed, only  a  little  man  with  shining  kindly  eyes,  the  eyes 
that  all  very  godly  men  of  whatever  creed  acquire  as  their 
certificate  and  earthly  reward,  and  a  head  like  dulled  silver. 
He  held  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and  in  the  fierce  sunshine  of 
the  wide  moor,  she  saw  that  his  coat  was  shiny  and  his 
trousers  "  kneed."  But  there  was  that  upon  the  face  of 
Archbold  Molesay  which  made  whatever  he  did  right.  She 
let  his  hand  remain  on  her  shoulder — long,  thin  fingers  that 
never  did  any  harder  work  than  play  a  little  harmonium, 
sometimes  on  the  street,  sometimes  in  the  evening  meetings 
indoors  when  the  voluntary  lady  organist  happened  for  some 
reason  to  be  absent. 

"  My  child,"  he  said,  "  I  do  not  know  you,  but  you  are 
in  sorrow,  in  trouble.  I  have  helped  many.  Perhaps  I  can 
help  you." 

Patricia  looked  at  Archbold  Molesay  with  that  straight 
piercing  regard  before  which  lies  dissolved,  like  oxidization 

182 


THE   KINGDOM   OF  GOD   OX   MAW   MOSS 

on  a  penny  dropped  into  an  acid  bath.  She  saw  in  a  mo- 
ment that  he  took  her  for  a  poor  girl,  in  her  plain  black 
morning  frock  and  sailor  hat. 

"  You  have  some  one  you  are  interested  in,  over  there, 
at  the  reformatory  ?  "  he  asked,  his  eyes  keeping  their  still, 
almost  divine  kindliness.  It  is  a  thing  certain  that  the  Car- 
penter's Son  spoke  thus  to  the  woman  they  brought  him, 
that  time  when  He  said,  "  Neither  do  I  condemn  thee !  " 

"  I  have  two,  over  there,"  said  Patricia  sadly;  "  two  in 
whom  I  am  much  interested.  But — "  here  she  hesitated. 
She  did  not  like  to  say  outright,  "But  who  are  you?" 
He  spoke  with  authority,  this  man.  Archbold  Molesay 
smiled. 

"  No,"  he  answered  gently  the  thought  as  he  saw  it  pass 
the  windows  of  her  eyes,  "  I  am  not  a  priest.  I  am  not  a 
minister.  Though  again,  perhaps  I  am  both.  I  have  at 
least  given  all  my  life  to  teaching  men  the  way,  as  I  know 
it,"  he  added  hastily. 

"  Ah,"  she  cried,  "  if  only  I  knew  the  way!  " 

The  cry  was  wrung  from  her.  It  was  a  real  appeal,  as 
natural  as  that  which  accompanies  actual  physical  pain. 
Archbold  Molesay,  the  security  of  his  message  upon  him, 
sat  down  beside  the  girl.  Queen's  daughter  or  strange 
woman,  all  were  as  much  one  to  him  as  they  had  been  to 
his  Master. 

"Tell  me!"  he  commanded,  speaking  softly  yet  with 
the  power  of  one  who  was  not  accustomed  to  be  disobeyed. 

"  Tell  me  first  who  you  think  I  am — what  you  imagine 
I  am?"  said  Patricia  looking  at  him. 

The  little  silver-headed  man  sketched  a  motion  with  his 
hand,  which  signified  clearly  that  who  or  what  this  woman 
who  wept,  was,  or  what  she  had  done,  weighed  with  him 
not  so  much  as  one  of  these  fairy  gossamer  threads  the  wind 

183 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

was  wafting  across  the  moor,  glinting  pearl  pink  in  the 
morning  light. 

In  his  heart  of  hearts  Mr.  Molesay  thought  the  girl  a 
mourning  sister,  or  perhaps  even — such  things  he  had  known 
— a  child-mother  with  a  prodigal  boy  already  shut  up  within 
these  great  walls  of  red  brick  which  Hearne  Mackenzie  had 
reared.  But  nothing  of  this  appeared  on  the  face  of  the  little 
missionary. 

"  My  Master  sent  me  to  meet  you,  here  and  to-day,"  he 
said  with  quiet  certainty,  "  else  why  am  I  sitting  with  you 
behind  this  erection  of  peat  bricks?  Tell  you  who  I  am, 
who  you  are?  What  does  it  matter?  For  me,  I  am  Arch- 
bold  Molesay,  missionary  to  the  poor  in  the  great  city  yon- 
der.    And  I,  too,  have  some  that  interest  me  in  there!  " 

He  pointed  to  the  solemn  lines  of  the  "  Hearne  Mac- 
kenzie," the  most  modern  and  successful  institution  for  re- 
claiming wrong-going  boys  in  the  world. 

Now,  I  know  not  what  took  hold  of  Patricia  at  that 
moment.  Perhaps  it  was  that  unknown  something  deep 
down  in  the  heart  of  every  woman,  which  prompts  her  to 
confess  to  the  man  who  summons  her  to  speak  out  in  the 
name  of  God.  She  may  know  little  of  God,  and  nothing 
at  all  of  the  man.  No  matter!  In  her  heart  there  is  the 
thrill  of  an  appeal. 

"Speak,  my  child!  I — and  God — are  listening!"  said 
Archbold  Molesay. 

And,  against  all  belief,  against  all  probability,  Patricia 
spoke. 

•  •  •  • 

What  she  said  she  cannot  now  recall.  She  tried  to  keep 
out  names.  Certainly  she  did  not  reveal  her  own,  nor  yet 
that  of  Lord  Athabasca.  The  meek  silver  head  nodded  at 
each  point.     Nothing  was  missed.     Archbold  Molesay  now 

184 


Speak,   my   child!      1    and   God   are   listening!'' 


THE   KINGDOM  OF  GOD  ON   MAW   MOSS 

and  then  interjected  a  question,  but  not  many.  Patricia  was 
too  accustomed  to  use  her  tongue  to  leave  anything  essential 
out  of  her  narrative. 

"  Ah,"  said  Mr.  Molesay  when  she  had  finished,  "  thank 
God,  the  wickedness  is  yet  to  do!  And  it  shall  not  be  done. 
You  remember  the  wise  saying  of  the  worldly,  '  Do  not 
worry  about  what  you  can't  help — you  cant  help  it!  Neither 
worry  about  that  which  you  can  help — go  and  help  it !  ' 
So  now  I  say,  help  it!  To  marry  that  man  because  of  money, 
or  position,  or  on  account  of  your  family  would  be  an 
iniquity.     But  it  is  not  done  yet.     Nor  must  it!" 

"And  what,  then,  must  I  do?"  Patricia  asked  meekly, 
looking  right  over  the  bowed  glistening  head  of  the  little 
city  missionary  across  the  wide  spaces  of  the  sunlit  moor. 
"What  must  I  do?" 

Little  Mr.  Molesay  studied  a  moment.  Perhaps  he 
consulted  the  speaking  voice  of  that  "  kingdom  of  God  " 
which,  according  to  his  reading  of  divine  things,  abode  with- 
in every  human  breast.  At  any  rate  it  was  a  moment  or 
two  that  he  rested  so,  with  averted  eyes  half-closed,  seeing 
the  inner  vision. 

Then  rising  up,  still  uncovered,  he  spoke  briefly  and 
clearly,  in  short,  authoritative  sentences.  It  was  now  Pa- 
tricia's turn  to  look  straight  at  him.  "Yes!"  she  said, 
promising  at  each  point,  nodding  also  to  show  that  she 
understood. 

"  Yes!  Yes!  Yes!  "  She  had  no  thought  of  refusing,  any 
more  than  if  he  had  been  an  angel  from  heaven. 

"  So,  then,"  he  concluded,  "  good-by  till  the  morning 
of  the  twenty-fifth!  I  will  meet  the  early  train.  It  will 
be  dark.  Here  is  my  card  with  my  address.  Write  what 
you  will  to  me.     God  be  with  you,  my  child !  " 

And  thus  came  the  kingdom  of  God  upon  Maw  Moss, 
13  185 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

in  a  clear,  glittering  day  of  winter  when  even  the  curlews 
had  deserted  it  for  the  tidal  flats  of  the  Firth.  It  came  not 
with  observation,  but — as  usual — with  a  still  small  voice. 
And  it  came  to  stay.  Henceforth  Patricia  McGhie  had 
something  to  live  for — first  of  all,  of  course,  the  morning 
of  the  twenty-fifth. 

On  the  whole,  Mr.  Molesay  had  a  harder  job  with  the 
Rev.  Harry  Rodgers,  minister  of  the  Peden  Memorial 
Church,  Cowgate.  You  see,  Mr.  Molesay  was  a  bachelor, 
and,  therefore,  in  the  matter  of  Patricia  he  had  to  have  re- 
course to  his  friend  the  clergyman,  who  demanded  reasons, 
and  to  these  again,  reasons  annexed. 

"  I  have  no  patience  with  you,  Molesay,"  said  the  Rev. 
Harry  Rodgers,  pacing  up  and  down  his  confined  study, 
lined  with  the  Fathers  in  vellum  and  the  Puritans  in  dull- 
brown  calf-skin  rows.  "  As  if  you  had  not  enough  to  do 
here.  And  yet  in  addition  you  must  take  on  your  hands  a 
young  woman  you  don't  know " 

"  Do  you  or  I  know  any  of  the  people  we  give  a  leg  over 
the  stile  to?"  said  Mr.  Molesay  with  a  sigh.  "Do  we 
even  know  them  after  they  are  over?  " 

"  That  has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  it,"  said  the 
Rev.  Harry  Rodgers  quickly.  "  This  is  serious,  Molesay, 
and  I  must  think.  You  say  that  this  young  lady — I  will 
assume  that  she  is  a  lady " 

"  Your  wife  will  tell  you  that  in  a  moment!  "  said  Mr. 
Molesay  with  a  gentle  tinkle  of  irony  in  his  voice. 

"  I  will  assume  that  she  is  all  you  say — "  said  the  min- 
ister, "  though  bachelors  are  easily  taken  in.  And  I  will 
assume  further  that  all  her  statements,  though  unchecked, 
are  true.  But  what  does  that  amount  to?  This,  so  far  as 
I  can  see,  the  young  lady  has,  to  oblige  her  family,  agreed 

186 


THE   KINGDOM   OF  GOD  ON   MAW   MOSS 

to  marry  a  man  of  higher  rank  than  her  own,  three  times 
her  age,  while  in  the  meantime  her  affections  are  bestowed 
upon  another " 

"  What's  all  this,  Harry  f  " 

A  small,  bead-eyed,  orbicular  Japanesy  woman  with 
very  smooth  hair  swooped  into  the  room,  rather  than  entered 
it.  She  had  the  oil  can  of  a  sewing  machine  in  her  hand 
and  she  was  in  search  of  the  wherewithal  to  fill  it.  She 
had  searched  every  available  place  and  as  a  last  resource 
she  attacked  her  husband's  study.  There  was  the  very 
bottle,  marked  "  Singer "  in  large  letters,  on  the  mantel- 
piece itself. 

"  Harry,  you've  had  it  for  your  bicycle  again,"  she  cried 
in  reproachful  accents,  "  and  after  what  you  promised,  too!  " 

"  Laura,"  he  said,  "  I  forgot — I  did,  indeed!  " 

The  Reverend  Harry  does  not  quote  the  patristic  fathers 
to  this  little  woman  with  the  bright  eyes.  He  knows  better. 
That  bottle  of  sewing-machine  oil  now  in  the  sloe-pupiled 
woman's  hands  is  worth  all  the  systematic  divinity  of  twenty 
centuries,  so  far  as  proof,  trial,  and  sentence  are  concerned. 

"  And  what  was  that  I  heard?  "  she  continued  boarding 
her  husband  with  a  hot  pretty  vehemence.  "Out  with  it! 
Some  of  your  megrims  and  scruples!  What  was  it  that 
Mr.  Molesay  said  /  would  understand  in  a  moment,  and 
you  were  arguing  about?  Come,  out  with  it,  or  I'll  find 
out  for  myself !  " 

And  she  shook  the  bottle  of  Singer's  machine  oil — war- 
ranted fluid  in  any  climate — in  his  very  face. 

"  It  was  a  young  lady,"  Rodgers  murmured  resolved  to 
make  a  clean  breast  of  it.  "  A  young  lady  whom  Molesay 
wants  to  bring  here." 

"Here — where — to  this  house?"  queried  the  little 
woman  her  tone  altering  as  quick  as  a  flash. 

187 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

Mr.  Molesay  nodded.  Then  he  smiled  and  waved  his 
hand  to  Rodgers.  "  Let  me  tell  it,"  he  said.  "  I  know  the 
facts  better.  I  had  the  story  from  the  young  lady  herself." 
And  he  related  Patricia's  parlous  case. 

On  Mrs.  Rodgers  it  had  quite  a  different  effect  than 
upon  her  husband. 

"  Of  course  she  shall  come!  "  she  cried  with  enthusiasm. 
"Who  could  doubt  it?  She  shall  be  as  my  own  sister. 
Marry  that  old  dotterer — never,  if  I  can  help  it !  And  I 
don't  see  that  she's  done  anything  wrong  either!  And  if 
she  had — why,  they  made  her,  with  all  their  foolery  about 
heiress-ships  and  titles.  Besides,  how  was  she  to  know  she 
was  going  to  meet  the  other — oh,  he  must  be  nice!  Of 
course,  she  shall  come  here!  Fill  the  oil  can,  Harry.  Mr. 
Molesay,  that's  all  settled." 

But  whether  it  was  the  filling  of  the  oil  can  which  was 
settled,  or  the  advent  of  Patricia  at  the  Peden  Memorial 
Manse  remained,  so  far  as  the  vivid  little  woman's  words 
were  concerned,  in  a  state  of  uncertainty. 

Mr.  Molesay,  however,  departed  well  satisfied,  and 
waited  for  the  twenty-fifth  of  February  with  a  tranquil 
mind.  That  is,  he  had  too  many  other  things  on  his  mind 
to  let  himself  be  overmuch  disturbed  about  anyone  of  them. 
There  was  Billy  Earsman,  for  instance,  who  wanted  to  know 
what  he  must  do  with  Kate  his  wife,  who  threatened  to  fall 
into  a  decline  with  fretting  about  her  little  Polly,  in  spite 
of  the  fine  funeral  and  the  singing  in  the  choir.  This  was 
a  disappointment  to  the  city  missionary,  who  had  thought 
that  affair  settled,  once  for  all,  so  soon  as  he  heard  Kate 
Earsman's  first  solo  after  Leo  Morse  had  taken  her  in  hand. 

Then  there  was  also  Ogg,  king  of  Bashen,  and  landlord 
of  the  "  British  Imperial,"  who  was  like  to  lose  his  license. 
In  which  case  much  worse  might  happen.  The  local  shebeens 

188 


THE   KINGDOM  OF  GOD  ON  MAW   MOSS 

would  be  reopened.  Drinking  would  be  done  in  secret 
Burke-and-Hare  kens  instead  of  being  policed  by  Billy  Ears- 
man  and  the  aforesaid  Ogg,  king  of  Bashen — strong  men 
both.  A  larger  percentage  than  usual  of  his  flock  had  been 
in  the  dock  that  week,  upon  the  usual  charges,  "  D.  and  D.," 
"  resisting  in  the  discharge,"  "  causing  to  assemble,"  and  so 
on — just  the  daily  round,  the  common  task,  nothing  more. 

Archbold  Molesay  had,  in  truth,  enough  to  do.  He  saw 
the  district  inspectors  of  police.  He  even  interviewed  the 
great  Henderland,  not  yet  retired  on  his  well-deserved  pen- 
sion. Of  set  purpose  he  visited  at  the  prison  in  the  Calton 
many  closely  shaven  heads,  and  being  there  he  was  asked 
to  look  in  and  see  various  others.  All  the  time  he  remained 
the  same — a  little,  timorous,  undaunted  man,  with  a  head 
that  glistened  with  the  sheen  of  good  silver  plate,  so  good 
that  the  butler  is  afraid  to  polish  it. 

All  the  same  the  twenty-fifth  of  February  arrived.  And 
with  his  chin  buried  in  the  raised  collar  of  his  worn  over- 
coat, Mr.  Molesay  waited  on  the  wind-thrashed  quays  of 
the  great  Abbotsford  Station,  under  the  changeful  bluish 
dither  of  the  electrics,  for  the  train  due  from  the  south  at 
6.15  A.M. 

There  was  a  man  to  be  hanged  aloft  yonder  in  the  big 
quadrangle  of  the  prison,  and  little  Mr.  Molesay  had  been 
most  of  the  night  up  with  him.  Already  curious  folk  were 
arriving  from  different  parts  of  the  city,  perching  on  rails 
and  walks  to  see  the  black  flag  go  up  as  St.  Giles  tolled  his 
eight  strokes,  when  a  man's  strong-beating  life  would  go  out 
like  an  oversnuffed  candle. 

But  as  to  that  Mr.  Molesay  had  now  no  care.  The 
man  up  there,  the  man  who  had  done  that  thing,  knew  all 
that  Mr.  Molesay  knew.  And  if  he  abode  with  him  he 
might  be  tempted  "  to  lean  on  the  creature,"  as  Mr.  Mole- 

189 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

say  expressed  it,  instead  of  passing  on  his  way  to  find  him- 
self face  to  face  with  the  Forgiver  of  sins  concerning  whom 
Mr.  Molesay  had  told  him.  Nevertheless,  Mr.  Molesay, 
adrift  on  the  cold  quays,  where  an  east  wind,  dry  and  with- 
ering, seemed  almost  to  blow  the  solid  freestone  flagging 
underfoot  into  grains  of  sand,  sent  a  prayer  up  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  Calton  Prison. 

Then  he  bent  himself  as  best  he  might  to  help  the  next 
of  human  kind  who  needed  him.    This  was  Patricia. 

She  had  not  awaked  upon  the  morning  of  her  marriage 
day.  Rather,  she  rose  from  an  unslept-in  bed  ready  dressed 
for  her  venture.  She  had  had,  since  her  meeting  with  Mr. 
Molesay,  one  friend  in  Egham  Castle — even  little  Kate 
Earsman,  wife  of  Billy.  Mr.  Molesay,  in  accordance  with 
his  usual  plan,  had  made  "  one  hand  wash  another,"  which 
in  this  case  meant  that  one  good  work  of  necessity  and 
mercy  could  often  be  performed  so  as  to  include  another 
and  a  lesser  good. 

And  the  greater  good  of  Patricia — alone  in  that  great 
castle,  abandoned  by  her  own,  sold  by  the  Hammers  to  the 
highest  bidder,  and  with  only  a  couple  of  skinny  automata 
for  responsible  relatives — went  along  with  the  good  of  little 
Kate  Earsman,  now  her  maid,  still  mourning  for  Polly,  and 
with  this  single  chance  of  distraction  and  country  air. 

Now  there  were  doubtless  wiser  little  men,  according  to 
the  flesh,  than  Mr.  Archbold  Molesay,  city  missionary.  But 
somewhere  in  his  frail  personality  there  must  have  been 
hidden  one  infallible  instinct  of  a  great  general.  He  pro- 
vided against  eventualities. 

It  could  not  be  said  that  Mr.  Molesay  actually  foresaw 
that  Kate  Earsman,  in  the  freedom  of  the  Egham  servants' 
hall,  could  have  found  the  proof  of  the  base  transaction  to 
which  Lord  Athabasca  had  allowed  himself  to  become  a 

190 


THE   KINGDOM   OF  GOD  ON  MAW  MOSS 

party.  Yet  she  did.  She  heard  the  rumor  that  her  mistress, 
Miss  Patricia  McGhie  Egham  Boreham-Egham,  was  to  be 
married  to  the  old  lord,  the  most  constant  visitor  at  the 
castle,  and  that  for  this,  on  the  marriage  day  itself,  the 
Hammers,  husband  and  wife,  were  to  receive  the  sum  of 
£10,000.  But  it  was  not  till  one  day  in  the  hall,  fiercely 
brushing  Lord  Athabasca's  overcoat,  with  the  neck  down, 
that  a  sheaf  of  papers  fell  from  the  inner  breast  pocket.  And 
among  them — Kate  had  no  delicacy  as  to  examining  them — 
she  found  the  penciled  minute  of  the  agreement  with  the 
Hammers,  terms,  date,  and  all. 

This  Kate  retained  in  her  own  hands,  for  there  was  no 
saying  what  Patricia,  in  a  fit  of  Quixotry,  might  not  do. 
Kate  felt  that,  if  things  happened  crosswise,  such  a  weapon 
would  be  far  better  in  her  hands,  or  in  those  of  her  husband, 
Billy,  the  "  bully  "  of  Ogg,  king  of  Bashen,  than  in  those 
of  a  simple  girl.  It  was  no  use  giving  all  the  advantages 
to  the  evildoers,  thought  this  brave  little  Kate,  any  more 
than,  in  mission  work,  it  is  right  that  the  devil  should  have 
all  the  good  tunes. 


191 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  TRAPPED  TIGER 

UT  this  part  of  the  story  must  begin  on  Pa- 
tricia's marriage  morning  in  the  castle  of 
Egham.  She  was  not  the  only  one  awake 
in  the  great  gaunt  castle.  Algernon  Ham- 
mer, also,  could  not  sleep  that  night.  He 
took  out  the  slip  of  paper  with  "  ten  thousand  pounds  " 
written  on  it  in  the  clean-curved  American  mercantile 
flourish  which  has  reached  across  the  St.  Lawrence.  Then 
the  figures  in  the  corner,  prettily  exact,  as  if  my  lord  had 
been  copy-setting,  £10,000,  how  beautiful  it  looked!  Now 
there  would  be  no  fumbling  with  pints  of  ale,  no  wrangling 
with  doubtfully  paying  guests  in  a  public  bar — nothing  but 
the  ten  thousand  well  and  safely  invested — "  a  little  farm 
well  tilled,  a  little  wife  well  willed,"  he  hummed.  He  was 
thinking  of  Marigh,  and  however  the  farm  might  be  tilled, 
Mr.  Hammer  had  no  doubts  concerning  the  excellence  of 
Marigh's  will  power. 

At  twelve  of  the  clock  that  day !  Marriages  —  what 
were  marriages?  Marigh  would  attend  to  that.  What  he 
would  do,  would  be  to  take  the  early  train  to  Edinburgh, 
disembark  on  the  platform  of  the  Abbotsford  Station  at 
6.15  a.m.  And  after  that,  lurking  unseen,  await  the  open- 
ing of  the  bank.    That  would  be  at  ten — not  a  minute  before. 

192 


THE    TRAPPED    TIGER 

He  must  catch  the  morning  train,  for  otherwise  he  could 
not  very  well  be  seen  leaving  the  castle  at  such  an  early 
hour  on  such  a  day.  Marigh  would  see  that  all  was  right. 
She  would  make  his  excuses — the  dentist — he  had  been  taken 
sharply  ill.  It  was  a  severe  disappointment  to  him  not  to 
be  all  day  on  the  spot — that  day,  so  pregnant  with  possibili- 
ties to  the  house  of  Boreham-Egham,  which  he  had  served 
so  long  and  so  faithfully.  He  would,  however,  be  back  in 
time  for  the  marriage  ceremony  itself.  Of  that  there  could 
be  no  doubt. 

So  at  the  little  moorland  station  of  Kingside,  where  the 
south  train  was  in  the  habit  of  stopping  for  a  drink  of  water, 
three  passengers  mounted — two  into  the  first-class — women 
they,  thickly  veiled  and  deeply  cloaked.  Then  after  linger- 
ing till  the  very  last  moment  in  the  dusk  of  the  unlighted 
waiting  room,  only  a  degree  less  bleak  than  the  moor  out- 
side, a  man  with  his  face  hidden,  made  a  dash  for  a  third- 
class  compartment,  fell  over  the  legs  of  a  sleeping  man,  was 
cursed  freely,  and  finally  settled  himself  in  the  least 
conspicuous  corner.  It  was  Mr.  Algernon  Hammer,  who 
occupied  himself  rubbing  his  shins  with  one  hand,  while 
with  the  other  he  made  sure  that  the  precious  check  was 
safe  in  the  innermost  pocket  of  his  waistcoat. 

True,  Lord  Athabasca  had  said  he  would  inform  his 
bankers  that  the  check  was  not  payable  till  afternoon  that 
day,  by  which  time  Lord  Athabasca  would  assuredly  have 
changed  his  estate  from  that  of  widower  back  to  that  of 
married  man.  But  then  my  lord  was  in  love  with  a  dashing 
young  heiress,  the  handsomest  in  the  country.  And  Mr. 
Hammer  thought  it  likely,  on  the  principle  that  there  are  no 
fools  like  old  fools,  that  my  lord  would  have  forgotten  to 
give  any  such  instructions  to  his  bankers.  In  which  the 
knowing    Algernon    had    indeed    argued    quite    correctly. 

193 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

The  check  would  have  been  paid  that  day  at  the  big  palace 
of  mammon  on  the  mound  at  ten  of  the  clock,  that  is,  but 
for  one  thing. 

And  that  small  hindrance  had  nothing  at  all  to  do  with 
my  Lord  Athabasca,  who  was  to  arrive  with  his  bridegroom's 
party  at  the  appointed  hour  of  half-past  ten,  to  find  a  dis- 
tracted Mrs.  Hammer,  an  immensely  excited  Philip  Egbert, 
a  Mrs.  Philip  apparently  fainting  and  coming  to  again  with 
the  regularity  of  clockwork.     But — the  bird  had   flown! 

Algernon  Hammer  was  so  taken  up  with  his  check  and 
its  safety  that  no  suspicion  crossed  his  mind  till  the  whole 
party  disembarked  on  the  wind-blown  spaces  of  the  Abbots- 
ford  South  Station.  Then,  as  he  happened  to  be  in  the  last 
carriage  of  the  train,  he  had  perforce  to  pass  the  compart- 
ment from  which  Patricia,  her  face  flicked  to  faint  rose  with 
the  teasing  Easter,  was  descending,  and  for  the  first  time 
in  her  life  giving  her  hand  to  a  man  as  she  did  so.  The 
man,  of  course,  was  Mr.  Archbold  Molesay,  of  the  Cowgate 
Mission. 

"  Oh,  no — of  course  not,"  she  was  saying,  "  he  knew 
nothing  about  it — no  one  knew  except  Kate  Earsman." 

Then  Mr.  Algernon  Hammer,  forgetting  the  precious 
contents  of  his  inner  waistcoat  pocket,  descended  upon  the 
runaways  with  a  perfect  shriek  of  despair. 

"  Miss  Patricia,"  he  cried,  "  what  are  you  doing  here 
at  this  moment?  What?  What?  What?  You  must  in- 
stantly return.  I  will  compel  you.  Where  are  the  police? 
I  will  telegraph  to  Mr.  Boreham-Egham — to  your  father. 
He  is  now  at  the  castle — to  your  brother.  And  this  man — 
get  out  of  my  way,  sir!  " 

And  being  strengthened  by  sudden  blinding  despair,  he 
gave  little  Mr.  Molesay  a  swing  that  sent  him  staggering 
against  the  nearest  tall  post  of  the  electric  light. 

194 


THE    TRAPPED    TIGER 

"  Billy! "  cried  Kate  Earsman,  lifting  a  hand  like  a 
signalman.  For  far  down  the  shadowy,  winking  platform, 
from  which  the  lights  were  dropping  away,  fewer  and  fewer, 
at  that  dead  time  of  the  morning  before  the  London  expresses 
were  due,  she  had  seen  a  figure  she  knew  well.  "  Billy! 
Billy,  I  want  you !  " 

And  upon  the  word,  Billy  Earsman  heaved  himself  for- 
ward, as  big  as  any  three  men  there — barring,  perhaps,  the 
stately  master  of  the  Abbotsford  Station  himself. 

"What's  up?"  he  inquired. 

His  wife  hurriedly  explained  and  Billy  looked  about  with 
an  abrupt  and  ugly  squaring  of  the  jaw.  The  Kingside 
engine  was,  of  course,  not  one  of  the  big  "  through  "  engines, 
but  a  "  short-distance  local,"  and  on  her,  busy  with  a  wisp 
of  waste,  was  a  man  whom  Billy  knew.  Indeed,  there  were 
few  men  on  the  south  side  of  the  city  whom  Billy  did  not 
know,  or  at  least  who  did  not  know  Billy. 

"  Jackie,"  he  said,  "  give  me  a  hurl  with  this  joker.  He 
wants  to  bother  the  wife.  Ye  ken  my  Kate — her  that  sings 
the  hymns,  and  this  young  leddy.    What'll  we  do  with  him  ?  " 

The  short-distance  driver  scratched  his  head.  It  was 
"  clean  again  regulations,"  of  course.  That  went  without 
saying.  But  then  he  owed  many  a  good  turn  to  Billy,  the 
right-hand  man  of  Ogg,  aforesaid  king  of  Bashen. 

"  Fetch  him  on  board,  Billy,"  he  said  at  last.  "  Faith, 
we  will  run  him  doon  to  Sant  Margaret's.  The  boys  will 
find  him  a  warm  shop  to  content  himsel'  in.  Botherin' 
Kate,  your  wife,  was  he?  He  deserves  to  hae  the  ugly  heid 
knockit  aff  his  shoothers.    What  for  dinna  ye  do  it,  Billy?  " 

"  Ower  mony  poliss  aboot,"  said  Billy  looking  down  the 
long  vistas  of  the  platform ;  "  and,  besides,  it  wad  mess  Mais- 
ter  Paton's  nice  clean  flags!  " 

"  Aweel,  they're  nane  sae  particular  doon  at  Sant  Mar- 
195 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

garet's!  "  said  the  driver  putting  his  hand  on  the  starting 
lever.     "  Gie  him  a  heave  amang  the  coals." 

"  Doon  yonder  they'll  rivet  a  man  up  in  a  biler  for  twa 
gallon  o'  Usher's  best!  Keep  still,  my  mannie!  Dinna  be 
fear't — ye  will  be  drooned  lang  before  ye  are  boilt.  They 
say  it's  no  a  painfu'  daith.  But,  look  here,  Billy,  dinna  tell 
the  Sant  Margaret's  men  aboot  Kate,  or  they  will  be  for 
startin'  the  fires  o'  the  Flyin'  Scotsman  wi'  him.  He  looks 
fine  an'  brosy.  He  wad  burn  weel,  juist  like  backin'  the 
fire  wi'  creesh !  " 

They  took  him  down  in  that  intractable  gray  of  the 
morning,  which  is  darker  than  the  dark  of  midnight,  through 
a  murk  of  tunnels,  past  the  yellow  wink  of  many  gas  lamps, 
the  brassy  reek  of  naphtha  flares,  to  where  there  were  dig- 
ging operations  going  on  for  the  new  station.  They  left  the 
electrics  far  behind,  the  high-bunched  kaleidoscopes  of  the 
signals  standing  long  aloft  in  the  west.  They  delivered 
Algernon  Hammer,  alarmed,  shaking,  and  much  afraid,  in 
a  darksome  place,  to  a  gang  of  brawny  giants  who  worked 
under  a  naked  arc  light  which  changed  its  "  pitch  "  every 
quarter  of  a  minute.  These  men  ran  little  wagons  into  a 
black  hole,  a  wet,  greasy,  unsatisfactory  hole  in  the  ground. 

Billy  Earsman  explained  to  his  prisoner — things  which 
gave  Billy  great  pleasure.  Algernon  offered  fabulous  sums 
of  money.  Hundreds  and  hundreds  of  pounds!  If  he  had 
offered  half  a  sovereign  he  might  have  had  a  better  chance. 
But  as  the  morning  broke,  the  St.  Margaret's  men  pushed 
him  into  the  excavation,  which,  frozen  outside,  was  drippy 
and  warm  within.  They  gave  him  a  pick  and  they  told  him 
to  dig.  When  he  indignantly  refused,  Mr.  Hammer  be- 
came aware  that  the  makers  of  the  new  tunnel  wore  No.  12 
tacketty  boots  and,  desiring  no  more  knowledge,  he  grasped 
the  pick  and  struck  his  first  stroke  of  honest  manual  labor. 

196 


THE    TRAPPED    TIGER 

But  the  morning  was  passing.  As  Algernon's  pick  rose 
and  fell,  and  he  felt  the  blisters  slowly  "  hoving  "  themselves 
on  his  soft  palms,  his  watch  ticked  in  his  pocket  relentlessly. 
High  over  head,  some  hundreds  of  feet,  a  man's  life,  taken 
by  his  fellow  men,  was  passing  into  the  whither,  just  as  if 
he  had  been  a  saint,  a  confessor,  or  a  martyr.  A  black  flag 
was  raised  and  a  deep  sigh  went  over  the  city — at  least 
over  that  part  within  eyeshot  of  the  ultimatum  of  human 
justice. 

Presently  it  was  ten  o'clock.  Algernon  knew  this  be- 
cause the  navvies  had  a  spell,  and  Billy  Earsman,  that  man 
great  in  the  world  of  them  that  draw  the  beer  pull  and  turn 
about  for  the  spirit  bottle  as  it  stands  on  its  glittering  row, 
had  mysteriously  procured  for  them  the  wherewithal  to  eat 
and  drink  and  smoke. 

Ten  o'clock!  And  the  bank  on  the  mound  would  be 
opening.  Horror!  Mr.  Hammer  made  a  rush,  only  to 
be  tripped  up,  and  asked  if  he  meant  to  get  himself  hurt — 
informed,  also,  that  fellows  who  did  not  know  how  to  be- 
have to  decent,  married  women  had  much  better  do  very 
exactly  as  they  were  told.  They  might,  for  instance,  happen 
to  get  covered  up  in  a  "  slide,"  or  their  heads  broken  in  a 
"  roof  fall."  It  sometimes  happened  so  in  driving  a  tunnel. 
Generally,  too,  it  happened  to  "  bad  men  "  like  Mr.  Alger- 
non Hammer.  And  though,  of  course,  they  would  be  sorry, 
owing  to  his  having  been  brought  there  by  such  good  chums 
as  Driver  Jackie  and  Ogg,  king  of  Bashen's  Billy — still, 
when  a  thing  like  that  happens,  as  it  were,  it  comes  to  pass 
once  for  all.  And  there  is  nothing  more  to  be  said.  Except 
to  contract  for  the  coffin.  And  sometimes  even  that  is  un- 
necessary. 

It  was  at  five  minutes  to  three  that  day,  according  to 
the  big,  silent,  official  timepiece  of  the  bank  on  the  mound, 

197 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

when  into  the  busy  hush  and  brass-bound  wicker-work  reserve 
of  the  big  business  room  rushed  a  strange  figure.  It  was 
Algernon  Hammer,  controller  of  the  high,  the  low,  and  the 
middle  justice,  over  at  Egham  Castle.  Only  one  coal-black 
whisker  remained.  The  other  had  been  scorched  off,  none 
knew  exactly  how.  He  was  dripping  with  wet,  though  the 
day  remained  dry,  chill,  straw  twirling,  Edinburghish.  His 
clothes  were  in  tatters  of  rags.  But  he  had  a  check  for 
£10,000  in  his  hand. 

The  paying  teller,  clean  shaven,  east  windy,  Edinburgh- 
ish himself,  glanced  casually  at  the  long  narrow  oblong  of 
bank  paper,  then  up  at  a  list  pinned  against  the  woodwork 
at  his  side.  He  never  once  looked  at  Algernon  Hammer. 
He  was  not  paid  for  that. 

"  This  check  was  stopped  at  five  minutes  past  twelve  to- 
day! "  he  said  as  calmly  as  the  big  clock  ticking. 

But  before  he  could  hand  back  the  check,  Algernon 
Hammer  had  fallen  fainting  on  the  floor. 

He  was  at  once  removed  to  the  Royal  Infirmary  a  little 
farther  on  across  the  Castle  Ridge,  and  in  that  brass-bound 
silence  business  went  on  as  before. 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Harry  Rodgers  was  indulging  in  the 
luxury,  purely  feminine,  of  "  a  good  cry."  All  real  women 
enjoy  that  as  one  of  their  greatest  pleasures.  The  others — 
well,  they  edit  papers,  speak  at  meetings,  and  generally  make 
themselves  objectionable.  But  because  they  don't  cry  as  a 
luxury,  men  don't  take  to  them,  somehow.  Strange,  but 
how  true ! 

Mrs.  Harry  Rodgers's  good  cry  was  aided  and  abetted 
by  Patricia.  She  told  her  story,  and  sometimes,  mostly  out 
of  sympathy,  cried  a  little  also.  This  showed  merely  that 
there  was  no  ill  feeling.     Then  they  kissed,  and  generally 

198 


THE    TRAPPED    TIGER 

cheered  each  other  up.  They  were  having  "  a  lovely  time  " 
when  the  Reverend  Harry  came  in,  and  with  him  Mr. 
Molesay. 

If  it  had  only  been  her  husband,  at  such  a  luxurious 
time  Mrs.  Harry  Rodgers  would  have  made  remarkably 
short  work  of  his  intrusion.  But  Mr.  Molesay,  having  a 
stake  in  the  country,  as  it  were,  deserved  and  must  receive 
somewhat  more  considerate  treatment. 

"  Archbold  Molesay,"  she  cried,  "how  dare  you?  Not 
kiss  a  girl  like  that,  and  you  old  enough  to  be  her  father? 
If  you  won't,  I'll  make  Harry  do  it.  Just  to  show  how 
welcome  she  is  among  us!  It  isn't  much  to  do!  There! 
I  do  believe  you  never  kissed  a  woman  before,  blushing  like 
that!  What,  not  since  your  hair  was  gray!  Well,  more 
shame  to  you,  coming  here  four  or  five  times  a  week  and 
seeing  how  happy  we  are,  Harry  and  I !  " 

This  speech  of  Mrs.  Harry  Rodgers's  was  a  little  mixed, 
as  most  of  the  dear  lady's  were.  But  it  implied  and  included 
a  good  deal  more  than  it  expressed.  Also,  it  called  up  various 
emotions  in  the  breast,  the  highly  unaccustomed  breast  of 
little  silver-haired,  low-voiced  Mr.  Molesay. 

Pat  had  no  objections  to  kissing  such  a  man,  "  such  a 
dear  little  man  "  was  her  mental  reservation.  She  was  sure 
he  wouldn't  mind,  no,  of  course  not.  It  would  not  have 
mattered  if  he  had.  It  was  none  of  his  business.  Here  Pa- 
tricia sighed,  the  why  unspecified  even  to  herself. 

"  I  do  not  at  all  agree  with  you  as  to  her  stopping  in," 
said  Mrs.  Harry  Rodgers.  "  Who  ever  comes  here,  down 
into  the  Cowgate?  They  look  at  us  as  a  curious  spectacle. 
You  can  see  a  crowd  all  day  and  half  the  night  staring 
down  at  us  through  the  grills  of  the  bridges,  as  if  we  were 
negroes  or  Hottentots.  Like  the  angels  Harry  talks  about, 
they  may  look,  but  they  mustn't  touch.     They  don't  inter- 

199 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

fere.  They  never  think  of  interfering  with  us.  We  would 
stew  in  our  own  juice  from  one  year's  end  to  another,  if  it 
were  not  for  the  casual  policeman,  and  the  well-dressed 
and  bred  children  who  throw  orange  peel  at  us  from  '  up 
above.'  Sometimes,  once  in  a  hundred  Christmases,  Santa 
Claus  comes  to  fill  our  stockings,  but  generally  those  up 
there  only — spit  on  us!  " 

Somewhat  mildly  her  husband  objected  to  the  forceful- 
ness  of  his  wife's  remarks.  But  Mrs.  Harry  was  not  in 
the  least  abashed,  and  indeed  in  the  breast  of  the  good  min- 
ister of  the  Peden  Memorial  there  rankled  a  feeling  that 
those,  who,  like  himself,  worked  in  the  city  slums,  were  left 
very  much  alone  to  sink  or  swim  according  to  the  freedom 
of  their  own  wills. 

The  day  wore  on.  Mr.  Molesay  went  about  his  work 
without  having  carried  out  his  proposition  that  he  should 
go  to  Egham  Castle  and  tell  Patricia's  father  what  had  be- 
come of  his  daughter. 

The  two  men  voted  aye ;  the  two  women,  no.  The  noes, 
being  thus  in  an  immense  majority,  carried  it  by  acclama- 
tion.   So  Mr.  Molesay  stayed  at  home. 

"The  idea!"  cried  Mrs.  Harry  with  quite  unusual 
vehemence — which  is  saying  not  a  little — "  to  go  out  there 
— and  have  the  whole  Egham  pack  in  full  cry!  We  would 
never  get  her  mind  quiet  at  all.  Of  course  her  sisters  will 
know  just  what  has  become  of  her.  They  would  have  done 
the  same  in  her  place.  Her  brothers  won't  care,  and  as  for 
her  father " 

"  Oh,  I  know!  you  needn't  shake,  '  Laura,  I'm  surprised 
at  you '  over  me,  Harry.  You  are  not  surprised  in  the 
least.  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say — all  about  '  honor 
thy  father  '  and  so  on.  And  so  I  did,  dear  old  man.  But 
he  never  spent  his  time  fiddle-faddling  about  pedigrees.     It 

200 


THE    TRAPPED    TIGER 

was  all  he  could  do  to  keep  us  in  potatoes!  No,  I  won't 
hush!" 

Patricia  laughed.     It  eased  things,  that  laugh. 

"  I  wish  I  had  known  your  father,  Mrs.  Rodgers,"  she 
said  sighing  a  little. 

"  Tut,  call  me  Laura,"  cried  the  little  almond-eyed 
woman.  "  We've  sunk  so  low  down  here  that  we  actually 
call  each  other  by  our  Christian  names  on  the  least  provo- 
cation or  none  at  all." 

Then,  in  the  gloaming,  just  when  the  casual  newsboy 
was  beginning  his  war  whoop  about  "  speeshul  edeeshun  " 
in  best  Cowgateese — for  there  is  no  quarter  in  the  city  of 
windy  spaces  so  impoverished  that  it  cannot  afford  a  half- 
penny for  an  evening  paper — little  Kate  Earsman  dropped 
in. 

Billy,  it  seemed,  had  come  back  with  a  tale — oh,  such 
a  tale!  A  tale,  which,  on  the  face  of  it,  had  better  not  be 
told  to  Archbold  Molesay  and  Harry  Rodgers,  regulars  in 
the  ranks,  in  the  forefront  of  the  fighting  line.  All  the 
same,  a  tale  which  immensely  amused  Patricia  and  Laura. 
For  good  women,  children,  and  savages  like  their  humor 
spread  on  with  a  trowel.  Jack,  cutting  the  bean  stalk  so 
that  the  bad  giant  might  tumble  down  and  break  his  crown, 
is  about  their  size. 

The  defeat — the  downfall  of  Controller  Hammer,  his 
reception  at  the  bank,  his  carrying  off  to  the  hospital,  his 
rapid  recovery  there,  and  hurried  exit  were  all  greatly  to 
the  taste  of  the  women  concerned.  For  Patricia  had  suffered 
many  things  at  the  hands  of  Algernon  Hammer. 

Kate  Earsman  wiped  her  eyes  as  she  told  it.     Her  Billy 

was  the  hero  of  it  all.    The  telling  had  done  her  good  like 

a  precious  medicine  from   the  Cowgate   Dispensary.     The 

only  point  where  she  went  beyond  the  appreciation  of  her 

14  201 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

patronesses  was  when  she  told  them,  as  an  additional  stroke 
of  humor,  that  after  the  beast  of  prey  was  stricken  down  on 
the  floor  of  the  bank  by  the  sudden  knowledge  that  all  his 
wiles  were  useless  he  had  called  out,  "  Oh,  what  will  Ma- 
righ  say?"  as  he  was  coming  to  himself  in  the  cab  which 
bore  him  along  Forrest  Road  to  the  accident  ward. 

But  to  Kate's  surprise  both  Laura  and  Patricia  agreed 
that  they  thought  the  better  of  Algernon  Hammer  for 
thinking  of  his  wife  at  such  a  time. 

"  Oh,  he  was  just  feared  o'  what  she  would  say  to  him !  " 
said  Kate  Earsman  who  also  had  her  own  griefs.  But  Pa- 
tricia and  Mrs.  Rodgers  remarked  that  affection  for  the 
tigress  is  no  shame  to  the  tiger,  especially  when  he  finds 
himself  taken  in  the  snare. 

Meantime  Egham  Castle  had  been  the  scene  of  events 
no  less  remarkable,  if  somewhat  less  varied  and  romantic 
than  the  adventures  of  Controller  Hammer  under  the  guid- 
ance of  Billy  Earsman  and  Driver  Jackie. 

From  early  morning  the  whole  place  had  been  in  an 
uproar,  chiefly  owing  to  the  fact  that  its  lord  and  master 
could  not  dress  himself,  could  not  adjust  his  pads,  pull  his 
straps,  fix  and  dress  his  wig,  choose  his  stock,  propel 
him  to  his  place,  and  settle  him  for  the  day  with  yesterday's 
Times  and  a  volume  of  the  Gentleman  s  Magazine  ready  to 
his  hand.  It  was  most  inconsiderate  of  Hammer.  Philip 
Egbert  Egham  Boreham-Egham  could  never  have  believed 
it  of  Hammer.  And  on  a  day  like  that,  above  all,  when 
there  was  company  in  the  house — McGhies  and  people  like 
that — besides  my  Lord  Athabasca  coming  over  at  half-past 
ten. 

Philip  Egbert's  wife  came  in  with  apologies — the  apolo- 
gies of  Mrs.   Hammer.     As  arranged,   Hammer  had  been 

202 


THE    TRAPPED    TIGER 

suddenly  taken  in  the  night  with  a  violent  toothache — so 
violent  that  it  required  an  immediate  visit  to  the  dentist 
in  the  city.  He  had  started  early,  so  as  to  be  back  in  time 
to  give  the  necessary  cares  to  his  master. 

Then  Mr.  Boreham-Egham  took  the  sulks.  Yes,  great 
man  as  he  was,  the  fruit  of  a  family  tree  whose  roots  were 
in  Noah  the  navigator  and  Adam  the  day  laborer,  Philip 
Egbert  took  the  sulks.  He  was  so  emphatically  in  the  pet 
that  he  refused  to  stir  out  of  his  room,  but  sat  in  a  chair 
before  the  fire  in  a  scarlet  dressing  gown  and  flannel 
trousers,  cursing  fate  and  Algernon  Hammer — Hammer  the 
faithless,  the  once  attached,  the  now  forever  anathematized 
controller  of  Egham. 

He  was  thus  engaged  when  he  received  the  news  of 
what  for  the  moment  appeared  to  him  a  far  lesser  grief. 

The  bride  had  disappeared! 

Annoying,  certainly!  But,  after  all,  what  was  that  to 
a  man  who  could  not  perform  the  first  necessities  of  the 
toilette  for  himself,  and  who  might  have  to  appear  at  one  of 
the  most  important  events  which  had  ever  taken  place  at 
Egham  Castle  in — shame  sat  on  his  brow  at  the  thought — 
in  flannel  trousers  and  a  scarlet  dressing  gown! 

"  Miss  Patricia  can't  be  found,  sir!  " 

It  was  William,  the  under  butler,  who  brought  the  news. 
William,  usually  something  of  a  favorite,  had  to  fly  from 
the  wrath  of  the  padless,  hairless,  stayless  thing  in  the  scarlet 
dressing  gown,  which,  as  one  might  say,  represented  all  that 
was  mortal  of  Philip  Egbert,  etc. 

"What  is  Miss  Patricia  to  me?"  he  shrieked,  looking 
about  him  for  a  missile.  Though,  as  William  remarked 
later,  "  What  he  thought  he  could  hit  me  with,  the  Lord 
only  knows!  " 

Send  Hammer  to  me  as  soon  as  he  comes  back,'  he 
203 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

says  (William's  report).  'Why,  it's  like  a  nightmare — 
going  to  church  in  a  dickey  and  a  pair  o'  spectacles!'  he 
says,  or  words  to  that  effect.  '  And  if  so  be  as  Hammer 
does  not  come,  there'll  be  no  wedding  in  Egham  to-day, 
bride  or  no  bride! 

"  That's  what  he  kep'  on  saying'  to  me,  and  me  tryin' 
to  edge  in  all  the  time,  that  there  bein'  no  Miss  Patricia, 
there  couldn't  be  a  wedding — no,  not  if  he  was  wrapped  in 
corsets  from  head  to  foot,  like  them  ancestor  fellers  of  his 
in  their  coats  o'  mail!  But  listen  to  a  word — he  just 
wouldn't,  sir.  Only  kept  cryin'  for  Hammer,  and  utterin' 
words,  sir,  that  I  never  thought  wot  the  old  creatur 
had  the  grit,  sir,  to  get  his  tongue  round.  He  must 
ha'  been  a  woner  when  he  was  young,  sir,  from  what  I 
heard !  " 

Thus  it  was  at  Egham  Castle,  so  far  as  the  master  of 
the  house  was  concerned  and  as  reported  upon  by  William 
the  faithful. 

The  McGhies  were  much  more  composed,  especially  the 
younger  members  of  the  family.  For  instance,  the  boys, 
though  they  regretted  the  Egham  and  Athabasca  pheasants, 
thought  Patricia  "  no  end  of  a  spunky  girl." 

"  Good  old  Pat,"  said  Gilbert.  "  Hoist  the  Union 
Jack,  give  three  cheers,  and  let  the  music  play!  The  num- 
ber of  flies  on  our  Pat  is  infinitesimal!  " 

As  for  Baby  Lant,  she  said  nothing,  only  thought  over 
the  things  she  would  say  to  Marthe,  otherwise  Mrs.  Willie 
Symington,  on  her  return  to  Balmaghie.  Mr.  Patrick  Mc- 
Ghie,  J.  P.,  offered  to  apologize  for  his  daughter's  behavior 
to  Mr.  Boreham-Egham.  But  that  gentleman  sent  the 
bereaved  parent  word  that  his  daughter  might  go  and 
drown  herself,  if  only  he  would  find  Hammer  and  bring 
him  into  the  room.     Mr.  McGhie  gasped  and  shrank  from 

204 


THE    TRAPPED    TIGER 

a  personal  interview  with  a  desolate  family  tree  wrapped 
in  a  scarlet  dressing  gown  with  flannel  continuations! 

But  when  Lord  Athabasca  came,  with  his  best  man, 
Mr.  Toby  Lasalle,  a  mighty  fisher  of  salmon  and  authentic 
millionaire,  the  possessor  of  an  island  about  the  size  of  Ire- 
land, there  were,  what  William  the  footman  somewhat 
vulgarly  referred  to  as  "  times." 

"  Times "  there  were.  Lord  Athabasca  demanded  to 
see  Mr.  P.  E.  Egham  Boreham-Egham  at  once  and  imme- 
diately, and  it  was  replied  to  him  that  such  a  thing  was  im- 
possible. But  even  in  the  days  when  Athabasca  had  been 
no  more  than  plain  Mr.  Hearne  Mackenzie,  C.E.,  it  had 
been  difficult  to  say  him  nay. 

So  now.  William  delivered  his  message  and  was  calmly 
put  to  the  side  by  the  collar  of  his  coat,  as  if  he  had  been 
a  troublesome  child.  Then  there  fell  a  knock  upon  the 
door  of  Mr.  Philip  Egbert,  and  so  forth. 

"  Don't  come  in — don't  come  in,  whoever  you  are !  I 
forbid  you!"  screamed,  squeaked,  and  twittered — all  at  a 
time — the  batlike  voice  of  the  master  of  Egham. 

But  my  Lord  Athabasca,  accustomed  all  his  life  to  direct 
methods,  simply  opened  the  door  and  walked  in.  There 
was  a  wild  flurry  of  scarlet,  arms  gesticulating,  batlike 
voice  piping,  flannel-clad  legs  which  transported  a  white 
and  pink  earwiggy  looking  thing  furiously  in  the  direction 
of  Lord  Athabasca.  It  squalled  in  his  ear  for  him  to  go 
out.  It  pushed  against  him  with  its  antennae,  curious  jointed 
structures  akin  to  the  arms  of  undressed  dolls.  But  my 
Lord  Athabasca  did  not  "  get  out."     On  the  contrary,  quite! 

He  said,  instead,  "  Hey,  stop  that!  " 

And  curiously  enough  the  scarlet  dressing  gown  was  at 
peace.  Its  occupant  had  never  been  addressed  in  that  man- 
ner before. 

205 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

"  Get  your  clothes  on !  "  said  this  wonderful  Canadian 
lord,  so  different  from  the  musty  inbred  things  that  are 
grown  at  home.  "  Get  your  clothes  on,  man,  and  help  us 
to  find  out  what  has  happened.  Your  Controller  Hammer, 
who  has  an  affair  with  me  to  settle,  has  vanished  and  appar- 
ently has  taken  with  him  Miss  Patricia.  And  hang  it, 
sir,  I  demand  to  know  what  it  all  means?  Have  you 
brought  me  here  to  make  a  fool  of  me?" 

The  "  relics  of  humanity "  were  understood  to  deny 
something,  anything,  everything.  The  "  relics "  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  bride,  now  a  term  of  mockery.  The 
"  relics "  demanded  Hammer,  who  alone  was  responsible 
for  all  the  trouble.  It  was  impossible,  quite  impossible  for 
the  master  of  the  house  to  get  out  of  his  scarlet  dressing 
gown  without  the  help  of  Hammer. 

"We'll  see  about  that!"  said  Lord  Athabasca.  "I'll 
teach  you  or  any  man  in  this  old  overcrowded  kingdom  to 
make  a  fool  of  me!  Here,  Toby,  Hearne,  come  up,  I  want 
you !  " 

And  in  answer  to  his  summons,  there  appeared  at  the 
door  of  Mr.  Philip  Egbert's  dressing  room  a  round-faced, 
muscular  man  with  twinkling  eyes,  and  a  tall,  solemn,  dark 
younger  man,  who  only  needed  a  feather  headdress  and 
some  strings  of  wampum  to  be  acknowledged  a  chief  of  the 
Northern  Sioux. 

"  Put  his  clothes  on!  "  said  my  lord,  the  ex-civil  engineer. 

Mr.  Boreham-Egham  squalled  again  for  assistance.  But 
as  William  and  the  other  footmen  were  strewed  along  the 
path  by  which  the  salmon  fisher  and  the  grandson  of  Chief 
Crowfoot  had  come,  they  felt  that  the  appareling  of  his 
master  was  Hammer's  place  and  duty,  and  so  kept  at  a 
discreet  distance. 

They  dressed  him,  these  two.  They  found  his  wig  on 
206 


THE    TRAPPED    TIGER 

a  shelf  and  put  it  on  wrong  side  foremost.  They  laced  his 
corsets  up  the  front.  They  bandaged  his  legs  as  if  he  had 
had  a  mustang  accident.  The  scarlet  dressing  gown  flew 
to  one  corner  of  the  room.  The  flannel  trousers — where 
went  they?  "Ask  of  the  winds,  which  far  and  near,  with 
fragments  strewed  the  sea."  Or,  at  least,  ask  of  Toby,  the 
salmon  fisher  of  the  Restigouche,  and  of  Hearne,  the  serious 
assistant  superintendent  of  the  reformatory,  not  far  away 
over  the  flat  surface  of  Maw  Moss.  Meanwhile  Lord 
Athabasca  walked  round  the  patient  and  offered  sugges- 
tions. Toby  and  Hearne  thoroughly  enjoyed  their  task, 
however.  And  Hearne,  in  especial,  brought  to  bear  mira- 
cles of  conscientiousness  upon  the  pads  and  straps — so  much 
so  that  Mr.  Boreham-Egham  felt  as  if  he  were  being  pin- 
ioned for  instant  execution. 

"  Now,  I  think  he'll  do,"  said  Lord  Athabasca.  "  Looks 
rather  like — "  a  scarecrow  he  was  going  to  say,  when  he 
remembered  that  he  was  in  that  scarecrow's  house,  and 
under  contract  to  pay  £10,000  to  that  scarecrow's  confiden- 
tial man.  A  suspicion,  perfectly  unwarranted,  that  Hammer 
was  to  share  the  proceeds  with  his  master,  acted  as  a  spur 
to  the  by  no  means  easy  temper  of  my  Lord  Athabasca. 

"  Fetch  him  downstairs,"  said  my  lord.  "  We  will  go 
into  this  in  the  drawing-room — before  everybody." 

And  there  in  the  drawing-room  in  the  presence  of  all 
the  company  assembled,  the  wedding  guests — such  nearest 
neighbors  as  were  acknowledged  by  the  haughty,  tree-toppy 
Egham  Boreham-Eghams — Athabasca  conducted  his  inquisi- 
tion. On  one  side  of  him  stood  his  son — dark,  impassive, 
strikingly  handsome;  on  the  other,  rotund,  smiling,  with  a 
face  polished  with  good  cheer,  was  Toby  Lasalle,  the  salmon 
fisher,  the  greatest  in  the  world,  they  said. 

And  so  mighty  is  the  power  of  the  stronger  will,   so 
207 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

complete  its  domination,  that  Marigh  herself — Marigh  who 
had  always  been  looked  on  as  the  backbone  of  the  Hammer 
Combine — gave  way  and  wept  aloud. 

Yes,  it  was  true.  Miss  Patricia  had  never  wished  to 
marry  his  lordship.  More  than  once  she  had  declared  her 
determination  not  to  do  so.  Especially  of  late.  There  was 
— yes,  she  was  sure — some  one  else!  How  could  she  know 
that?  Well,  Miss  Patricia  had  been  seen  walking  on  the 
moor  with  some  one  by  her  side,  of  a  figure  like  that  of  a 
young  man.  And  it  had  been  noticed  that  when  she  entered 
late  from  these  unchecked  rambles,  she  was  sometimes 
flushed,  sometimes  sad,  sometimes  excited,  and  on  one  occa- 
sion in  actual  tears! 

It  was  out  at  last,  and  everybody  looked  at  Lord  Atha- 
basca to  see  how  he  would  take  it.  He  took  it  like  the  game 
old  bird  he  was. 

"  Um-m-m-m-m,"  he  said,  rubbing  his  chin.  "  It  would 
have  saved  a  great  deal  of  trouble  if  you  had  told  me  that 
before,  Mrs.  Hammer.  Much  as  I  admire  Miss  Patricia, 
I  have  not  the  slightest  desire  to  marry  a  girl  who  does 
not  want  to  marry  me.  She  has  good  taste,  no  doubt.  But 
all  the  same  she  has  lost  a  good  husband,  eh,  Toby?" 

"  That  she  has,  dear  old  man,"  said  the  loyal  Toby, 
"  and  a  first-rate  sportsman !  " 

"  It  was  Algernon,"  said  Marigh,  still  sobbing.  "  We 
was  afraid  to  break  to  it  to  you!     His  heart  is  that  tender!  " 

"  Ah !  "  said  Lord  Athabasca  in  a  lower  tone,  "  his  heart 
is  tender,  is  it?  And  where  may  he  have  hidden  away  that 
tender  heart  of  his  to-day.  Somewhere  near  the  Bank  of 
Scotland,  I  guess." 

He  looked  at  his  watch,  nodded,  and  then  beckoned  his 
son. 

"  Take  one  of  the  carriage  horses,"  he  said  in  a  whisper; 
208 


THE    TRAPPED    TIGER 

"  they  are  fresh.  I  had  them  ordered  here  overnight  for 
another  purpose,  which  will  not  now  be  carried  out.  Go 
to  the  bank  on  the  mound  and  stop  the  check  for  ten  thou- 
sand pounds  which  I  gave  in  favor  of  Algernon  Hammer, 
payable  this  day." 

And  he  scribbled  a  few  words  on  a  wedding-breakfast 
menu  which  he  picked  up  from  the  table.  The  face  of  the 
dark  young  man — people  whispered  that  it  was  his  son,  and 
that  now  at  last  there  would  be  a  reconciliation — cleared 
amazingly.  He  said  not  a  word,  but  left  the  room  with  the 
stiff  gilt  cardboard  in  his  hand. 

"  Order  the  horses  for  us  all  at  the  same  time,"  his 
father  called  after  him.  "  The  sooner  we  are  out  of  this 
the  better  pleased  we  shall  be,  eh,  Toby?  " 

And  thus  it  was  that  the  east-windy,  speckless,  frosty, 
along-Princes-Street-and-back-again,  blue-blooded,  all-there, 
banking  young  man  in  the  head  office,  felled  Algernon 
Hammer  to  the  ground  on  his  return  from  St.  Margaret's, 
as  surely  as  if  he  had  taken  out  a  loaded  bludgeon  to  do  it. 

And  it  surprised  no  one  very  much  that  Marigh  dis- 
appeared from  Egham  Castle  that  very  afternoon,  and  that 
a  body,  identified  as  that  of  Algernon  Hammer,  was  fished 
up  by  a  trawler  beyond  the  May. 


209 


CHAPTER  XVI 

SCHOOLMASTER    GRAINER 

HERE  was  a  dark  and  deadly  plot  "  on  "  at 
the  "  Hearne  Mackenzie "  Reformatory, 
that  eminent  establishment  built  by  the 
munificence  of  a  well-known  millionaire, 
supported  by  voluntary  contributions,  and 
recently  placed  under  Governmental  supervision. 

Now,  the  "Hearne  Mackenzie  "  boys  were  not  model 
boys.  Far  from  it.  Before  entering,  each  of  its  inmates 
had  either  to  have  three  "  petties  "  or  one  "  grave  "  to  his 
discredit.  The  "  graves  " — which  meant  magisterial  sen- 
tence for  a  grave  offense — were  the  aristocrats  of  the 
school,  looked  up  to,  toadied  to,  the  models  of  the  aspir- 
ing, as  it  were,  the  "  glass  of  fashion  and  the  mold  of 
form." 

Kid  McGhie,  officially  known  as  No.  666,  was  of  this 
latter  sort — that  is,  till  he  fell  from  his  high  estate.  As 
the  Swanker  had  foretold,  his  father's  fame  had  been  his  best 
introduction  to  the  upper  circles  of  "  Hearne  Mackenzie  " 
society.  It  speaks  well  for  the  discipline,  and  the  real  human 
kindness  with  which  the  institution  was  carried  on,  that 
the  boys  who  were  of  most  use  in  the  school,  who  stood  out 
most  strongly  against  the  "  St.  Jacob's "  influence,  who 
looked   forward  to  an  honest  way  of  earning  a  livelihood, 

210 


SCHOOLMASTER    GRAINER 

were  almost  exclusively  those  who  had  been  longest  at  the 
"  Peat." 

Of  these  the  chief  was  Harry  Lister,  a  red-headed  lad 
of  great  strength,  a  good  fighter  with  his  fists,  a  clever 
workman  in  the  "  shops,"  and  dowered  with  good  looks 
and  a  merry  expression  of  eye  which  carried  him  far. 

It  was  not  that  he  put  his  reformation  on  any  moral 
basis — not,  at  least,  in  words.  He  did  not  vaunt  his  virtue,  ex- 
cept as  the  best  policy.  He  knew  that  in  the  "  Hearne  Mac- 
kenzie," anything  else  would  simply  be  laughed  at.  Then 
there  would  be  a  fight.  He  did  not  want  to  fight — unless 
he  had  to.  It  was  all  very  well  for  a  "  greenie  "  like  Mc- 
Ghie's  Kid,  who  had  to  show  his  mettle  so  as  not  to  be 
"  hazed,"  and  whose  recent  successful  encounter  with 
Smutty  (No.  391)  was  still  in  everybody's  mouth.  But 
red-headed  Harry  Lister  was  in  no  such  case.  For  of  him 
it  might  be  said  with  reverence,  that  the  rest  of  the  acts 
of  Harry  Lister,  and  the  songs  that  he  sung  and  how  he 
licked  the  great  bruiser  Groggy  Till,  so  that  he  could  not 
stand  up  straight  in  boot  leather,  and  how  he  warred  with 
Grainer,  giving  back  blow  for  blow,  are  they  not  written 
in  the  chronicles  of  the  "  Hearne  Mackenzie  "  ?  There- 
fore, and  for  these  reasons,  had  Harry  Lister  no  need  to 
strip  and  show  his  form  to  any  within  the  walls  of  the 
"  Peat." 

But  he  was  a  lazy  boy  and  oftentimes  let  the  worser 
reason  sway  him  to  silence.  About  this  time  the  "  bad  " 
element,  which  was  led  by  Kissar  Mills  and  Smutty,  now 
received  a  tremendous  addition  in  the  shape  of  Duffus  of 
the  red  tie,  condemned  to  five  years  for  "  grave."  It  was 
the  law  of  the  school  that  none  but  the  superintendent  should 
know  why  a  boy  had  been  sent  to  the  "  Peat,"  but  Duffus 
did  not  hide  his  light  under  a  bushel.     It  was  for  house- 

211 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

breaking,  violence,  firing  off  a  revolver  at  a  policeman,  and 
other  mighty  acts  that  Duffus  the  great  had  fallen  from 
the  senior  wranglership  of  "  Blind  Jacob's  "  to  be  merely 
No.  680  at  the  "  Hearne  Mackenzie." 

"  He's  a  bad  egg,"  said  Harry  Lister,  after  listening  to 
the  newcomer  for  some  hours  the  first  night.  "  There's  only 
one  sort  worse  than  an  industrial  schooler,  an'  that's  a 
training-ship  boy  wot's  got  the  chuck !  Now,  you  mark  my 
words,  Beast,  there'll  be  trouble  in  this  old  '  Peat '  before 
we  are  many  weeks  older.  Big  trouble  and  blow  the  froth 
off  the  top!  Don't  you  have  nothing  to  say  to  the  like  o' 
him!     Now,  mind  me,  Beast,  or  I'll  whop  you  for  it!" 

The  Kid  took  the  hint,  and  though  Duffus  of  the  red  tie 
was  at  first  astonishingly  polite,  and  brought  many  messages 
from  Daddy  Lennox,  Corn  Beef  Jo,  and  even  from  his  step- 
father, Knifer  Jackson,  the  Kid  did  not  unbend  in  the  least. 

"  Your  father  bade  me  tell  you  that  he  must  get  you 
out — me,  too.  He  can't  work  properly  without  either  the 
two  of  us,  and  I  am  so  much  in  request,  having  a  headpiece, 
and  eddication  and  that — he  wants  you  out  for  the  times 
and  seasons  when  he  can't  have  me — see,  Kid?" 

"Well,  what  is  he  going  to  do  about  it?"  asked  the 
Kid.  "  I'm  in  for  four  year  and  a  half,  and  you  for  five. 
And  then — why,  it  means  Canada  or  the  army.  The  cross 
game  is  up,  you  ask  Harry  Lister.  He'll  get  his  walking 
ticket  in  ten  months.  And  then  he  clears  for  Canada  with 
young  Mr.  Hearne. 

At  this  simplicity  Duffus  laughed  uproariously  so  that 
the  warder  looked  his  way,  and  told  him  to  shut  that  noise 
trap,  or  he  would  take  the  job  off  his  hand. 

"  And  do  you  suppose,  Softie,"  demanded  Duffus  in  a 
lower  and  more  cautious  tone,  "  that  a  man  like  me — know- 
ing what  I  know,  and  with  ten  fingers  like  these  here  ones 

212 


SCHOOLMASTER    GRAINER 

— will  stop  to  make  boots  or  sit  cross  legged  on  a  greasy 
board  in  a  place  that  fair  stinks  of  ironing  and  new  cor- 
duroy! Not  much,  my  young  friend!  Oh,  not  considerable 
much! 

"And  what  do  you  intend  to  do,  then?"  said  the  Kid 
in  his  most  innocent  manner. 

But  Duffus  of  the  red  tie  laid  his  finger  along  the  side 
of  his  nose. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  "that's  tellin' !  We  must  know 
whether  you  are  stanch  or  not.  After  you  are  sworn  in  to 
be  one  of  us,  then  you  shall  know,  you  and  your  precious 
chum,  Harry  Lister.  If  he  means  to  milk  cows  in  Canada 
all  his  life,  it's  more  than  I  do!  And  I  don't  see  what 
you  are  yarnin'  about,  anyway.  When  you  get  out  o'  this 
shop,  they'll  have  to  get  your  father's  consent  to  send  ye 
abroad,  and  you'll  be  too  young  to  engage  in  the  army.  So, 
willy  nilly,  back  you  go  to  Mr.  Knifer  Jackson.  There's 
nothing  for  it  but  to  be  solid  with  us,  my  young  friend. 
And,  indeed,  right  proud  you  may  be  of  Knifer.  There's 
not  a  cleaner  workman  between  here  an'  Land's  End — no, 
nor  Johnny  Groat's — barrin',  that  is,  the  education,  where 
he  is  a  bit  rocky.  You  are  in  the  way  of  gettin'  some  o' 
that  here,  such  as  it  is.  So  don't  throw  away  your  chances, 
and  the  Knifer  may  make  something  o'  ye  yet!  But  stay 
here — me — Duffus — the  cock  o'  '  Blind  Jacob's  ' — oh,  ha — 
ha— ha!" 

And  he  went  off  in  a  paroxysm  of  somewhat  subdued 
laughter. 

Clearly,  thought  the  Kid,  there  was  mischief  afloat.  But 
what  and  where?  And  even  if  he  found  it  out,  what  was 
he  to  do?  Tell?  That  was  impossible.  He  had  not — he 
could  not  come  to  that  yet. 

Aloft  in  the  cold,  clear  atmosphere  of  the  office,  other- 
213 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

wise  the  board  room,  Hearne  Mackenzie,  assistant  superin- 
tendent, talked  sadly  with  his  chief. 

"  There's  something  in  the  wind,"  he  said.  "  I  feel 
it — how,  I  can't  tell  you,  Carvel.  Just  the  way  I  know 
by  laying  my  cheek  to  the  ground  that  there's  a  thunder- 
storm coming  up.  Indian  blood,  I  daresay.  Or  so  they 
would  say  in  the  Blackfoot  country,  or  on  the  frontier  of 
the  North  Sioux.  Trouble  coming  fast  down  wind.  I  feel 
the  thrill  of  it.     And  if  I  mistake  not,  it's  that  new  boy." 

"  Not  your  favorite  Kid?  Not  No.  666?  "  said  Carvel. 
"  Have  the  angels  risen  a  second  time  in  rebellion  against 
the  powers  of  heaven  ?  " 

"  He  is  no  angel,  that  young  McGhie,"  said  the  assistant 
superintendent.  "  But  it  is  not  he  who  is  making  the 
trouble.  If  I  am  not  mistaken,  it's  that  gay  young  Duffus 
who  is  so  mighty  spick  and  span !  " 

"Duffus — nonsense!"  cried  Carvel.  "As  pleasant 
spoken  a  young  rascal  as  ever  I  saw,  well  dressed  and  hands 
like  a  lady.  It  was  quite  a  pity  to  make  him  put  on  the 
institution  rig.  He  would  have  been  a  credit  to  the  place 
as  pony  boy,  if  only  he  could  drive!  " 

"  Worst  kind  of  all!  "  said  Hearne  Mackenzie.  "  When 
we  get  these  smart  Alecs  on  the  Kootenay,  we  run  them  out 
sharp  to  the  nearest  railway  station,  and  buy  them  a  ticket 
to  Uncle  Sam's  end  of  the  line." 

"And  if  they  won't  go?"  said  Carvel  smiling  into  his 
white  beard. 

Hearne  Mackenzie  cleared  his  throat  and  paused  a 
moment. 

Oh,  well,"  he  said,  "we  never  have  any  difficulty! 
You  see,  there's  a  lot  of  us.  And  we  don't  ask  them  to  go 
— not  patient  like.     We  tell  them !  " 

"Uncle  Sam  always  glad  to  see  them?"  inquired  Car- 
214 


SCHOOLMASTER    GRAINER 

vel.  "  Seems  to  me  I  shouldn't  like  to  run  a  reformatory 
for  Kootenay  derelicts — after  what  I've  heard  you  tell  about 
them." 

"Oh,  Uncle  Sam — he's  all  right!"  said  Hearne  Mac- 
kenzie. "  They've  either  got  to  skin  fast  as  they  can  lick 
for  a  Tammany  town  and  get  into  ward  politics,  or " 

He  imitated  the  gesture  of  some  one  pulling  on  a  rope. 

"  Ashes  to  ashes!  "  he  said  not  as  a  joke,  but  as  a  respon- 
sible man  stating  an  undeniable  fact  in  the  most  concise  way 
possible. 

"  I  fear,"  said  Carvel  still  smiling,  "  that  after  the 
Kootenay  and  your  relative  Crowfoot,  you  must  find  our 
methods  here  a  little  slow?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Hearne  Mackenzie  thoughtfully,  "  it  is 
true,  we  can  reform  many  a  young  fellow  out  on  the 
Kootenay.  But,  you  see,  he  must  be  a  pretty  decent  young 
fellow  to  be  let  stay  there  at  all.  We  catch  them  young 
here,  chasten  'em  a  bit  with  good  hard  grub  and  good  hard 
work,  and  then  turn  'em  loose,  with  this  single  command- 
ment on  his  tables  of  stone — that  he  had  better  behave  or 
he  will  find  himself  swinging  in  the  wind,  like  a  tassel  on 
a  flag  pole.  As  soon  as  the  young  fellow  realizes  that  that's 
right — sure — he  takes  no  risks  but  falls  into  step  and  becomes 
as  decent  as  the  next  man !  " 

"  Well,  you're  a  rum  fellow,"  said  Carvel.  "  See  here — 
I  have  been  at  this  sort  of  work  all  my  life — I  believe  in  it. 
I'm  ready  to  put  my  last  shilling  on  it,  just  as  you  have 
done.  But  there's  something  about  your  way  of  looking  at 
things  which  I  don't  fathom.  I  can  snatch  a  cudgel  and 
wade  into  a  row  with  any  man,  but  I  believe  you  would 
be  ready  to  see  a  gibbet  set  up  in  the  back  court  to  help  us 
dispose  of  our  failures!  " 

"  It  would  save  a  lot  of  trouble,  certainly,"  said  the 
215 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

saturnine,  quiet  young  man ;  "  also  it  would  be  better  for 
them — in  the  long  run !  " 

"  What  a  heathen  idea!  "  said  Carvel,  who  was  optimistic. 

"  Maybe,"  said  Hearne  Mackenzie,  "  that's  your  point 
of  view,  and  you  are  the  boss  here.  But  I  have  heard  my 
grandfather,  Crowfoot — he  was  a  big  chief  and  had  a  bigger 
head — say  that  if  you  couldn't  make  a  man  a  good  man, 
the  next  best  thing  was  to  make  him  a  quiet  man — a  per- 
man-ENT-ly  quiet  man!  And  I  am  not  sure  but  what  he 
was  right.    At  least  it  saves  trouble!  " 

Carvel  rose.     He  smiled  no  more. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  for  a  young  man  that  has  been 
recommended  and  pressed  upon  this  institution  as  peaceable 
and  law-abiding,  Christian  and  God-fearing,  for  a  young 
man  whom  those  who  know  no  better  are  pleased  to  con- 
sider— you  will  excuse  the  word — a  trifle  '  soft ' — you  are 
really  something  of  a  surprise,  Hearne — yes,  that's  it, 
something  of  a  surprise!  " 

He  went  out  as  he  spoke,  his  mild  yet  keen  eyes  dwell- 
ing long  on  the  motionless  figure  of  the  young  man. 

"  But,"  he  said  over  his  shoulder,  "  no  disappointment!  " 

The  after  guard  of  the  "  Peat  "  being  thus  to  some 
extent  on  its  defense,  forearmed  if  not  forewarned,  Duffus 
of  the  red  tie  would  have  found  some  difficulty  in  carrying 
out  his  plan  if  it  had  not  been  for  treachery  on  the  quarter- 
deck. It  seems  impossible  to  believe  that  there  could  be  any 
alliance  between  the  warders  and  teachers  of  such  an  institu- 
tion as  the  "  Peat  "  Reformatory  and  the  boys  under  their 
charge.  And,  indeed,  in  ordinary  circumstances,  this  would 
have  been  incredible. 

But  just  then  the  circumstances  were  far  from  ordinary 
at  the  "  Peat."     Grainer,  the  schoolmaster,  was  a  soft,  fat, 

216 


SCHOOLMASTER    GRAINER 

sluggish-moving  man  with  a  shifty  eye  and  a  cruel  mouth. 
During  his  hours  of  instruction  there  came  from  the  school- 
room a  continuous  howl  of  suffering  boyhood,  punctuated 
with  dull  solid  strokes  of  the  cane.  Hearne  Mackenzie 
used  to  pace  up  and  down  the  brickyard,  wondering  if  the 
directors  would  give  him  his  leave  if  he  were  to  go  in  just 
once  and  thrash  Grainer  within  an  inch  of  his  life  with  his 
own  canes,  breaking  them  one  after  the  other  across  his 
back.  Even  Carvel,  whose  principle  was  noninterference 
with  his  staff,  kept  away  from  the  neighborhood  of  the 
schoolroom  at  such  times. 

Now  Grainer  was — though  the  fact  was  naturally  un- 
known in  the  school — the  maternal  uncle  of  Duffus  of  the 
red  tie.  Duffus  was  also,  from  the  first  day  in  school,  his 
best  pupil.  He  had  been  well  grounded,  was  clever  at  all 
the  ordinary  branches,  and  indeed,  in  arithmetic,  mechanics, 
and  the  science  of  the  pen  was  far  in  advance  of  his  master. 

Therefore  Duffus  was  made  monitor.  The  labors  of 
Grainer,  except  with  the  cane,  were  mightily  lightened 
thereby.  Duffus  taught  most  of  the  lower  forms  for  him, 
and  conducted,  all  unknown  to  his  comrades,  a  good  deal 
of  quiet  espionage  in  the  school  for  the  benefit  of  Grainer, 
who  hated  to  think  that  there  was  a  boy  of  any  sort  whom 
he  could  not  flog.  That  was  the  kind  of  beast  which,  more 
particularly,  Grainer  was. 

Of  course  if  this  spying  could  have  been  traced  to 
Duffus,  he  would  instantly  and  collectively  have  been  slain. 
He  would  have  got  something  in  the  dormitories  which 
would  have  sent  him  to  hospital  for  a  month  without  malin- 
gering. But  Duffus  was  far  too  clever  to  be  caught  out  like 
that.  His  relationship  to  the  schoolmaster  of  the  "  Peat  " 
was  unknown  even  to  the  superintendent.  His  information 
or  misinformation  was  conveyed  very  much  under  the  rose. 
15  217 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

Grainer  found  a  list  of  rebels  against  regulations,  written 
out  in  copperplate  in  his  hat,  in  the  pocket  of  his  greatcoat, 
in  the  inside  of  his  locked  desk.  He  asked  no  questions, 
but  acting  at  once  upon  the  information,  "  whaled  "  unmer- 
cifully the  just  and  the  unjust,  among  others,  of  course,  the 
Kid. 

This  afforded  him  some  relief.  For  he  was  the  sort  of 
man  who  had  instinctively  chosen  his  profession  in  order 
that  he  might  play  the  brutal  tyrant  over  the  bodies  and 
souls  of  the  helpless.  He  actually  derived  a  keen  and  ex- 
quisite delight  from  the  infliction  of  pain.  There  are  such ; 
more,  indeed,  than  any  except  the  medico-legal  specialist 
wots  of. 

Still  Grainer  was  not  happy.  At  least  he  was  happy 
only  when  his  thrashing  arm  was  in  action,  and  the  sobs 
and  wails  of  the  victims  rose  on  the  stuffy  schoolroom  air. 
For  Grainer  was  a  disappointed  man,  a  man  with  a  griev- 
ance, or  rather,  two  grievances. 

Superintendent  Carvel  was  the  one,  Hearne  Mackenzie 
the  other.  Grainer  envied  Carvel  his  place  and  salary,  with 
the  low,  bitter,  self-gnawing  hatred  of  the  mean-spirited 
peasant  who  has  "  bettered  himself  "  a  little,  but  not  much. 
He  hated  Hearne  Mackenzie  because  he  was  a  lord's  son, 
because  he  did  not  need  to  be  there  at  all,  drawing  X120  a 
year  of  salary,  and  because  he  would  have  preferred  Hearne's 
cottage  to  his  own.  It  was  at  the  other  side  of  the  road, 
away  from  the  observance  of  Carvel,  the  hoary  sneak  who — 
And  here  Grainer  diverged  into  paths  of  abuse  along  which 
we  need  not  follow  him. 

At  all  events,  Simeon  Grainer,  schoolmaster  (late 
national  schoolmaster,  of  England),  hated,  envied,  and 
considered  with  all  uncharitableness  Superintendent  Carvel, 
his  assistant,  Hearne  Mackenzie,  and  all  their  works. 

218 


SCHOOLMASTER    GRAINER 

Simeon  Grainer  considered  schemes  by  which  he  might 
supplant  them  and  sit  in  their  seats,  thrashing  boys  and 
ruling  men.  He  thought  of  the  lovely  canes  he  would  buy 
at  the  expense  of  the  institution.  His  fingers  twitched  to 
clutch  them.  He  thought  also  how  he  would  lie  in  bed 
till  the  time  of  morning  exercise — that  is,  punishment — in- 
stead of  going  into  the  chilly  schoolroom  at  eight,  which  was 
the  present  unholy  rule. 

Simeon  Grainer,  schoolmaster,  saw  his  way  to  deal  with 
his  superintendent.  That  is,  he  thought  he  saw  it.  There 
is  a  joint  in  every  man's  harness,  and  Simeon  Grainer  be- 
lieved he  had  found  that  of  Superintendent  Carvel. 

But,  admittedly,  in  the  nature  of  things,  Hearne  Mac- 
kenzie was  a  more  difficult  matter.  At  first  the  "  staff  " 
had  fought  shy  of  Hearne.  Men  working  for  their  living 
did  not  understand  a  young  man  who,  after  giving  thou- 
sands of  pounds  to  an  institution,  was  content  to  accept  a 
salaried  post  like  one  of  themselves.  But  by  and  by,  as  said 
old  Aldebaran  Newton,  whose  father  had  been  a  distin- 
guished astronomer — and,  when  sober,  knew  Jupiter  from 
Venus — "  when  we  fand  oot  that  he  did  his  wark  like  the 
rest  o'  hus — indeed,  raither  better.  And  pit  on  nae  side. 
And  wad  fry  himsel'  a  chop  or  maybe  just  a  fresh  herrin' 
or  twa  to  his  coffee  an'  bap,  we  began  to  understand  that, 
barrin'  the  bit  crack  in  his  brain  pan,  that  hurt  naebody, 
no  even  himsel',  he  was  juist  like  the  lave  o'  hus.  Forbye, 
it  was  a  kind  o'  honor  to  hae  the  son  o'  a  real  lord  in  the 
institution,  even  though  he  had  a  bit  o'  a  crack  in  the  skull 
o'  him!" 

But  Schoolmaster  Grainer  could  not  so  pass  things  over. 
To  understand  is  to  forgive,  truly.  All  the  eternal  hopes 
of  all  the  religions  are  founded  on  that.  Other  foundation 
can  no  man  lay.     But  Schoolmaster  Grainer  did  not  under- 

219 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

stand.  He  could  not.  His  mind  was  so  constructed  that 
he  could  not  believe  but  that  Hearne  Mackenzie — that  tall, 
sober,  somber,  dusky-skinned  young  man,  with  the  million- 
aire for  a  father — had  some  sinister  motive  in  coming  to  the 
"  Peat "  Reformatory  as  assistant  superintendent  upon  a 
living  wage  of  £120  a  year. 

He  did  not  want  the  post  for  himself.  As  schoolmaster 
he  was  better  paid  as  it  was.  But  he  wanted  Hearne  "  out 
of  that."  He  coveted  his  house,  until,  in  the  fulness  of 
time,  he  should  spring  his  plot  against  Carvel,  unseat  that 
great  man,  and  reign  in  his  stead. 

First,  then,  Hearne  Mackenzie!  It  seemed  a  forlorn 
hope  for  Grainer — to  those,  that  is,  who  did  not  know  the 
miracles  of  low  cunning  that  seeded  and  mushroomed  morn 
and  eve  in  the  brain  of  Simeon  Grainer.  During  the  day 
he  was  too  much  employed  taking  the  hide  off  a  couple  of 
hundred  boys  to  have  time  for  anything  but  the  delicious 
enjoyment  which  this  exercise  afforded   him. 

But  at  morn  and  eve,  as  has  been  said,  he  was  free.  Then 
would  the  creature  walk  out  alone,  with  his  waistcoat  curv- 
ing before  him — he  lived  well — and  his  hands  resting  from 
honest  toil  under  the  tail  of  his  seedy  Oxford  coat. 

He  told  you  it  was  a  fine  night  if  you  met  him.  But 
that,  or  any  other  civility  he  might  offer,  never  moved  any- 
thing sympathetic  in  your  bosom.  You  only  wanted  all  the 
more  to  kick  him.  As  for  Hearne  Mackenzie,  he  had  to 
sink  his  nails  into  his  palms  and  turn  abruptly  on  his  heel 
in  the  opposite  direction  to  keep  from  doing  it,  thinking  of 
the  sort  of  music  he  had  heard  from  that  man's  schoolroom 
only  an  hour  before. 

"  Oh,"  he  would  groan,  "  if  '  the  boys  '  could  only  have 
him  for  one  afternoon,  just  one  happy  Sunday  afternoon 
when  there  wasn't  much  doing,  down  in  the  old  camp  on 

220 


SCHOOLMASTER    GRAINER 

the  Kootenay,  I  wouldn't  ask  for  more  nor  better  in  this 
life!" 

As  Hearne  was  a  good  fellow,  and  the  comrades  in  the 
"  old  camp  on  the  Kootenay  "  were  also  good  fellows,  it 
is  to  be  presumed  that  they  wished  to  have  a  little  quiet 
Sunday  school,  with  Simeon  Grainer  for  a  first  pupil.  And 
there  is  no  doubt  but  that  he  would  have  learned  a  lesson 
from  Hearne  Mackenzie  and  the  "  boys "  down  on  the 
old  Kootenay  which  would  have  done  him  good  for  all  his 
life. 

But  alas  for  Simeon  and  for  his  chances  of  future 
instruction,  the  Kootenay  was  far  away,  the  camp  fires 
dead,  "  the  boys "  scattered  to  the  four  winds,  or,  more 
likely,  eaten  alive  by  the  big  gray-and-black  "  skeeters " 
which  abound  there. 

In  one  of  his  evening  walks  Simeon,  for  once  in  luck's 
way — at  least  so  he  thought — kicked  up  a  piece  of  white 
paper  which  had  been  trodden  into  the  black  ooze  of  a 
crumbly  peat  brow. 

Simeon  held  it  up.  There  was  the  print  of  a  small 
foot  thereon — rather,  of  a  dainty  heel. 

"  Somebody  angry!  "  murmured  Simeon,  seeing  that  the 
heel  had  gone  right  through  the  letter  at  one  side. 

"  Writing  upon  it !  "  said  Simeon,  holding  the  half-sheet 
up  in  the  waning  grayish-yellow  light  of  the  gloaming.  He 
struck  a  match,  which  flamed  up  so  suddenly  that  if 
the  piece  of  paper  had  not  been  damp  with  the  dew  of  the 
moorland,  it  might  then  and  there  have  been  lost  to  the 
world. 

"  Hum,"  said  Simeon,  scratching  his  cheek  with  the 
hand  that  had  held  the  match,  "  I  should  know  that 
writing.  I  will  show  it  to  Duffus.  He  will  know!  Smart 
boy,  Duffus!" 

221 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

So  to  Monitor  Duffus,  late  of  the  red  tie,  just  as  the 
twilight  melted  into  dark,  and  the  windows  of  the  "  Peat  " 
flamed  like  those  of  a  factory,  the  letter,  unsigned  and 
apparently  unfinished,  was  committed  for  inspection.  The 
last  class  of  evening  school  had  been  dismissed.  Fewer  boys 
had  been  flogged  than  usual.  Grainer  had  something  on  his 
mind,  something  that  took  the  edge  off  the  delight  of  con- 
joining a  new  and  weakly  boy  and  an  old  but  healthy  cane. 
He  wanted  to  be  left  alone  with  Duffus,  nominally  to  set 
copies,  really  to  set  traps. 

"  Sub  supe!  "  said  Duffus  curtly,  holding  his  little  cock- 
sparrow  head  to  the  side  to  look.  "  He  wrote  that — no 
other!" 

"Could  you  imitate  it — add  another  sentence  or  two?" 
queried  Simeon,  regarding  with  interest  a  chart  of  the  rivers 
of  Patagonia,  hung  on  the  wall  to  illustrate — very  appro- 
priately— the  theory  of  watersheds — the  eyes  of  Mr.  Simeon 
Grainer's  pupils  doing  the  practical  water-shedding. 

Duffus  looked  at  the  schoolmaster  more  cock  sparrowly 
than  ever.  He  had  a  secret  contempt  for  the  cruel,  cunning, 
sluggish  creature  who  could  do  nothing  with  his  pulpy  hands 
except  thrash.  But  for  the  present  he  was  in  his  power,  the 
power  of  Grainer's  cane,  and  he  nodded  smilingly.  One 
day,  he  said  to  himself,  he  would  get  the  Knifer  or  Corn 
Beef  Jo  to  give  the  schoolmaster  a  "  doing."  Then  he 
would  learn  something.  Probably  something  closely  approx- 
imating to  Hearne's  Sunday-school  lesson  on  the  banks  of 
the  Kootenay. 

In  the  meantime  Duffus  of  the  red  tie — removed  for 
cause — glanced  at  Simeon  Grainer  and  calculated  his  own 
advantage. 

"  Supposin',"  he  said  slowly  and  softly,  with  the  cock- 
sparrow  twist  of  keenest  watching  in  his  eye,   "  supposin' 

222 


SCHOOLMASTER    GRAINER 

that  I  can  do  as  ye  say,  will  you  agree  to  forget  your  master 
key  some  night  where  I  can  get  at  it?  I  will  put  it  back 
again  before  morning!" 

"What  for?"  said  the  master  suspiciously.  "To  skip 
out  over  the  heather,  I  suppose.  You're  a  clever  boy, 
Duffus,  but  I  thought  you  were  a  sight  too  clever  for  that! 
Why,  we  have  everything  arranged,  and  you  would  be 
nabbed  before  you  could  get  a  mile!  " 

Duffus  sneered  visibly.  "  These  others  might,"  he  said. 
"  Listen  to  them  quacking  over  their  lessons  like  so  many 
ducks  in  a  pond.  But  not  me,  Duffus,  that  has  had  educa- 
tion and  advantages!  Well,  master,  you  forget  that  key, 
and  I'll  write  what  you  want.  The  ink's  the  only  diffi- 
culty  " 

"  Oh,  I  can  borrow  some  of  Mr.  Hearne's — tell  him  a 
lie!     That's  easy!"  said  the  schoolmaster. 

Duffus  regarded  him  approvingly.  "  You're  in  the 
wrong  profession,"  he  said  smiling  impudently;  "but  when 
you  come  to  '  Blind  Jacob's,'  where  I'm  a  professor,  I'll 
give  you  a  tip  or  two  that  will  send  you  skyting  to  the  top 
o'  the  tree!  " 

"  Duffus,"  said  Simeon  Grainer,  "  sometimes  I  don't 
quite  know  whether  to  give  you  a  feed  and  a  glass  o'  beer,  or 
manhandle  you  with  my  best  new  cane!  " 

"  I  would  try  the  feed  and  drink,"  said  the  boy  smartly. 
"  The  cane  wouldn't  make  me  write  like  Mr.  Hearne. 
Rather  a  good  hand  that!  "  he  added,  regarding  it  critically. 
"  I  think  it  could  be  imitated  best  on  gin  an'  water!  " 

"You  were  born  to  be  hanged,  certainly!"  said  the 
schoolmaster. 

"  And  you  would  be  as  safe  in  the  middle  of  the  Atlantic 
with  a  life-preserver  and  a  meat  biscuit  as  in  your  own  bed 
at  home!  "  retorted  Duffus  of  the  red  tie,  who  would  give 

223 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

the  schoolmaster  nine  points  out  of  ten  at  that  sort  of  thing 
and  come  out  ahead  every  time. 

With  the  aid  of  a  couple  of  glasses  of  gin  and  water,  a 
bottle  of  ink  borrowed  from  Mr.  Hearne's  room,  and  many 
shiftings  of  the  paraffin  lamp,  so  that  the  light  might  fall 
on  the  writing  at  different  angles,  the  additions  to  the  letter 
found  on  the  moor  were  successfully  achieved. 

The  schoolmaster  gazed  at  the  boy  in  wonderment.  This 
was  far  beyond  him. 

"  You  are  a  son  of  perdition,"  he  said  to  Duffus;  "  but 
I  wish  I  could  do  that !  " 

"Ah!  "  remarked  Duffus,  his  hand  still  waving  his  pen 
gracefully,  as  if  in  search  of  other  worlds  to  conquer. 
"  Find  it  useful,  eh?     On  checks  and  things?  " 

"Testimonials!"  said  the  schoolmaster  enthusiastically. 
"  Why,  with  a  power  of  handwriting  like  that  you  could 
show  testimonials  from  the  highest  in  the  land,  and  they 
wouldn't  ever  know  the  difference  themselves!  " 

'  They  never  do,"  said  Duffus.  "  It  has  been  tried.  A 
man  is  doing  seven  years  for  it  now.  Nothing  to  do  with 
me,  of  course — being  only  a  boy !  " 

"What!"  cried  the  schoolmaster,  who  remembered  the 
case.     "  Did  you  do  it?" 

'  That's  tellin' !  "  said  Duffus  winking  an  eye.  "  Im- 
possible! Only  a  boy!  Led  away!  First  offense!  Send 
him  to  a  reformatory,  where  ky-ind  good  people,  like  Mr. 
Schoolmaster  Grainer " 

"Drop  it,  that's  enough!"  spurted  Mr.  Grainer 
sharply.     "  I  can  half-kill  you,  mind !  " 

"But  then  the  testimonials?"  suggested  the  boy  with 
subtle  irony.  '  There's  a  power  of  great  people  in  the 
world  that  would  like  to  say  over  their  signature  what  a 
fine  man  you  was,  Mr.  Grainer!  " 

224 


SCHOOLMASTER    GRAINER 

"  But  how?  "  said  Mr.  Grainer,  slow  at  anything  except 
thrashing  and  his  own  style  of  plotting.  "  You  haven't  got 
any  great  folks'  handwritings  to  copy." 

"  There's  a  paper  wot's  called,  I  think,  The  Best  of  All 
Bests  or  something  like  that — all  the  Bigwigs  in  Bigwig- 
town  all  talking  Bigwig  together — or  writing  it  rather. 
It's  an  Ai  thing.  Now,  in  their  yearly  album  you  can 
choose  who  you  will  have,  and  tell  me  what  to  make  'em 
say — bishops,  political  Johnnies,  Mr.  Gladstone,  the  Claim- 
ant, the  Burkehill  murderer,  Mr.  Company  Promoter 
Dooley,  and  General  Booth.  They  say  what  their  favorite 
hymn  is,  on  which  arm  they  have  been  vaccinated,  if  their 
souls  aspire,  and  if  they  are  subject  to  bleeding  at  the  nose. 
Then  they  all  end  up  by  saying  what  a  fine  paper  The  Best 
of  the  Best  is,  and  how  they  are,  one  and  all,  the  obedient 
servants  of  the  man  wot  put  up  the  job!  Oh,  the  Best  o' 
the  Best's  album  is  no  end  useful  and  costs  only  a  silver 
sixpence!  Good  practice  for  me,  too,  and  will  teach  you, 
sir,  the  art  of  superior  composition !  " 

"  If  it  were  not  that  there  is  really  something  in  what 
you  say,  Duffus,  and  I  may,  in  fact,  need  such  a  thing  one 
of  these  days,  I  would  be  compelled  to  take  the  hide  off  you 
for  impudence !  " 

"  Your  very  good  health,  sir,"  said  the  cock  sparrow, 
squinting  suggestively  with  one  eye  at  his  empty  glass;  "  but 
pray  remember  that  I'm  here  for  five  years  and  won't  stop 
a  month !     It's  now  or  never  for  those  testimonials." 

The  schoolmaster  meditated  deeply.  "  Well,"  he  said, 
"  I  will  get  the  book.  I  think  I  have  seen  it  on  the  book- 
stalls at  railway  stations,  or  at  least  something  like  it.  But 
there's  something  to  come  before  that.  Now  be  off  to  your 
bed,  Duffus.  Your  mind  travels  too  fast.  I  must  think 
things  out.    My  motto  is  '  slow  but  sure  ' !  " 

225 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

"  You  won't  forget  about  the  master  key,  sir,"  said 
Duffus.  "  According  to  agreement,  sir!  On  the  peg  under 
the  hatstand  in  the  lobby  of  your  house.  I  can  come  in  for 
it  whenever  I  like !  " 

"  You  are  almost  too  universally  talented  a  young  man, 
Master  Duffus,  even  for  me!"  cried  Schoolmaster  Simeon 
looking  after  the  boy  as  he  crossed  the  court  to  No.  3 
dormitory. 


226 


CHAPTER    XVII 


PLOT  THE  FIRST 


HE  "  Peat  "  Reformatory  was  at  this  time  the 
center  of  three  several  plots — two  of  them 
having  Mr.  Schoolmaster  Simeon  Grainer 
for  their  storm  center ;  the  other  was  hatched 
by  Duffus  of  the  red  tie.  Of  these,  one  was 
deceitful,  another  dangerous,  and  the  third  desperate.  The 
desperate  plot,  as  might  be  expected,  emanated  from  the 
accomplice  of  the  Knifer  and  Corn  Beef  Jo.  As  these  three 
conspiracies  involved,  more  or  less,  most  of  the  persons  men- 
tioned in  this  history,  we  will  take  them  in  their  order. 

The  schoolmaster  locked  his  door  behind  him.  His 
house  had  been  "  done  out "  for  the  day  by  Mrs.  Isaac 
Brotherton,  the  wife  of  one  of  the  senior  warders.  He 
had  asked  the  assistant  superintendent  to  take  his  classes 
for  the  evening,  a  thing  which  Hearne  was  always  glad  to 
do,  out  of  pity  for  the  boys'  hides.  Mr.  Simeon  was  going 
on  a  message  of  his  own  to  the  great  house  of  Three  Ridings 
down  in  the  valley,  the  Scottish  home  of  Lord  Athabasca. 

He  had  a  letter  with  him,  a  letter  with  the  print  of  a 
haughty  little  heel  upon  it,  where  it  had  been  angrily  crushed 
into  the  peat  soil. 

But  to  that  letter  there  were  new  additions — written 
with  the  pen  and  ink  of  Mr.  Hearne  Mackenzie,  and  ap- 

227 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

parently  by  his  hand.  These  additions  were  such  that — so 
the  cunning  schoolmaster  thought — Mr.  Hearne  Mackenzie 
might  think  it  wise  to  remain  in  Canada  after  his  next 
journey,  instead  of  returning  to  the  little  red  brick  house 
across  the  road,  so  highly  coveted  by  Simeon  Grainer. 

There  was,  it  seemed  to  Mr.  Simeon,  no  special  danger 
to  himself  in  what  he  was  about  to  do.  He  had  found  a 
weapon,  sharpened  it,  and  it  would  have  been  foolish  if 
he  had  not  been  willing  to  make  the  best  use  of  it.  He 
therefore  inclosed  the  (amended)  note  he  had  found  on 
the  moor  in  an  envelope,  sealed  it  with  the  strongly  marked 
St.  George  and  the  Dragon  one  finds  on  the  reverse  of  a 
sovereign — an  excellent  imitation  of  a  coat  of  arms — and 
finally  addressed  it  to  the  Right  Hon.  Lord  Athabasca, 
G.  C.  M.  G.,  etc.,  Three  Ridings,  Lothianshire. 

Having  arrived  in  the  valley,  he  went  hastily  up  the 
front  steps  of  the  great  building  in  the  dusk,  drawing  his  hat 
brim  well  down;  and  standing  his  coat  collar  well  up,  he 
rang  the  bell,  and  handed  in  the  letter  to  the  solemn  man  in 
black  who  opened  the  door. 

"From  Egham  Castle.  No  answer!"  he  said,  and 
was  making  off. 

The  Three  Ridings'  footman  stood  uncertainly  with  the 
note  in  his  hand.  Hospitality  was  traditional  at  Three 
Ridings. 

"  Hi — won't  you  come  round  to  the  hall  and  take  a 
drop  o'  something?"  he  called  out. 

"  No,  I  thank  you !  "  said  the  schoolmaster  over  his 
shoulder. 

Something  unprofessional  in  the  tone  and  manner  of  the 
messenger  from  Egham  Castle  retained  the  attention  of 
the  first  footman  at  Three  Ridings. 

"  Just  as  well,  perhaps,"  he  muttered,  shutting  the  door, 


PLOT    THE    FIRST 

"  or  Jenkins  might  'a'  needed  to  count  the  spoons  after  you 
had  gone.  My,  they  do  keep  some  rum  old  fossils  over 
at  that  Egham — regglar  Noah's  Ark,  it  is,  I'm  told!  " 

But  he  took  the  letter  up  to  Lord  Athabasca  all  the 
same.  The  peer  was  bending  with  knit  brows  over  a  half- 
cut  copy  of  a  book  on  the  Dominion  of  Canada  dedicated  to 
himself.  He  had  sharpened  a  blue  pencil  to  mark  the 
passages  from  which  he  dissented.  And  so  far  as  he  had 
gone,  he  seemed  to  have  dissented  from  everything.  The 
blue  pencil  had  followed  the  lines  of  type,  plowing  along 
angrily  here,  there  often  piercing  two  or  three  pages  right 
through  at  one  fell  swoop.  At  another,  it  had  conscientiously 
deleted  an  adjective  here,  corrected  a  census  return  there. 
Then  suddenly  aroused,  it  had  splurted  a  furious  scrawl — 
"Nonsense!"  on  the  margin.  Lastly,  the  book,  dedication 
and  all,  was  on  the  point  of  being  pitched  across  the  room, 
in  the  general  direction  of  the  waste-paper  basket.  The 
pencil  had  been  bitten  till  the  taste  of  the  blue  (a  coal-tar 
product)  warned  the  reader  that  his  mouth  must  look  as  if 
he  had  just  been  having  a  feed  of  ripe  blackberries. 

"  Your  lordship,  a  letter." 

"  Where  from  ?  "  demanded  Lord  Athabasca.  "  Any 
answer?  " 

"  From  Egham  Castle,  my  lord,"  said  the  soft  voice 
of  the  footman.  "  The  man  said  that  he  would  not  wait. 
There  is  no  answer." 

"  So  much  the  better,"  growled  my  lord.  "  What  can 
they  be  wanting  with  me?  Why,  that's  Hearne's  hand- 
writing, or  I'm  a  Dutchman!  What  filthy  paper,  though! 
What's  this — what's  this?  " 

He  went  grumbling  across  to  the  large  moderator  lamp 
to  see  better,  and  stood  glowering  and  wrinkling  his 
brow. 

229 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

"  Miss  Patricia  "  (he  read),  "  I  have  no  right  to  address 
you,  considering  the  position  in  which  circumstances  have 
placed  us."  (I  should  think  he  had  not,  the  dog!)  "  But  in 
a  moment  of  weakness  I  have  told  you  my  heart.  I  hold  to 
that.  I  cannot  go  back.  I  love  you,  and  I  shall  never  love 
another.  In  the  future  which  is  before  both  of  us,  in  spite 
of  all  that  you  can  do,  I  shall  be  ever  as  now,  your  friend 
and  lover.  My  father  cannot  last  long.  I  am  heir  to  all 
he  possesses.  You  might  do  worse  than  go  off  for  a  while  to 
the  snug  hiding  place  we  two  know  of  till  the  storm  blows 
over.  Then  you  may  have  the  money,  the  peerage,  and 
your  sweetheart  as  well.    Yours  till  death." 

There  was  no  signature,  but  evidently  the  letter  needed 
none. 

Lord  Athabasca  read  the  letter  over  thrice  carefully.  As 
he  read,  the  color  left  his  cheeks  and  he  bit  hard  again  on 
the  aniline  pencil. 

"  So,"  he  said,  "  this  was  the  reason  he  came  so  willingly 
and  comfortably  to  the  marriage.  To-morrow  I  shall  settle 
Mr.  Hearne.  He  thought,  doubtless,  that  by  marrying  a 
second  time  I  would  do  him  out  of  part  of  my  money — 
settlements  on  my  wife,  possibilities — and  so  on.  The  easiest 
way,  in  the  opinion  of  my  handsome  son,  was  to  make 
love  to  the  girl — my  girl !  Well,  to-morrow  I  will  go  over 
to  the  '  Hearne  Mackenzie  '  Reformatory — and — reform 
the  assistant  superintendent!  It  is  a  blessing  that  I  am 
chairman  of  the  directors — with  provisional  powers.  If  I 
cannot  dismiss,  I  can  suspend.  And  if  Mr.  Hearne  does 
not  set  out  at  once  for  the  Kootenay,  I  am  not  such  an  old 
man  yet,  but  I  will  let  daylight  through  him  where  he 
stands,  if  he  were  my  son  three  times  over!  " 

Then  the  lusty  old  Nor'wester  thrust  the  joint  produc- 
230 


PLOT    THE    FIRST 

tion  of  his  son  and  Master  Duffus  of  the  red  tie  into  his 
pocket,  and  went  calmly  down  to  dinner,  where  he  was 
the  gayest  of  the  large  bachelor  company  which  sat  about  a 
round  of  ancient  mahogany. 

"  One  might  take  him  for  fifty,"  said  Sir  Peter  Salt, 
one  of  his  guests,  "  but  when  I  was  governor  of  Cape 
Breton,  in  '67,  he  was  just  as  lusty  an  old  cock  bird  as  he 
is  to-day.  And  after  that  he  had  an  Indian  wife,  too,  with 
eyes  like  pansies.  My  word — the  kind  with  no  yellow  in 
them — and  a  voice — on  my  soul,  if  she  had  had  a  sister 
and  if  I  had  been  sure  that  old  Crowfoot,  her  father,  would 
not  have  cut  my  throat,  I  declare  I  might  have  married  a 
squaw  myself!  " 

"And  you  might  have  done  worse!  "  said  Toby  Lasalle, 
who  sat  next  him,  swapping  salmon  stories.  He  knew  the 
Indian  country,  so  they  said. 

"I  have!"  said  the  ex-governor  of  Cape  Breton,  with 
a  sigh,  as  he  thought  of  his  stern  spouse  sitting  at  home 
waiting  for  him,  "  nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm." 

"  To-morrow  I  will  settle  that  young  man,"  said  Lord 
Athabasca  to  himself,  "once  and  for  all!" 

He  went  up  to  the  "  Peat "  Reformatory  in  the  fore- 
noon, put  up  his  pair  of  grays  at  the  little  Kingside  Inn 
a  mile  to  the  southward,  and  strolled  down  to  call  upon 
his  son,  his  soft,  fawn-colored  felt  on  the  side  of  his  head 
and  a  smile  on  his  lips — for  everybody  except  his  only 
son. 

He  found  Hearne  busily  superintending  a  gang  of  boys 
planting  potatoes.  The  rich  black  soil,  never  broken  before, 
gave — for  a  year  or  two,  at  least — magnificent  crops  of 
these,  in  what  are  termed  locally  "  lazy  beds."  They  were 
not  so  good  nor  so  plentiful  the  second  year,  but  then 
there  was  not  the  least   difficulty  in  changing  the  venue. 

231 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

You  had  all  Maw  Moss  before  you  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach,  even  to  the  very  park  walls  of  Egham. 

The  young  man  took  off  his  hat  at  sight  of  his  father, 
for  in  spite  of  each  going  his  own  way,  there  was  some- 
thing patriarchal  in  their  relations. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  sir,"  he  said  striding  across  the 
lumpy,  irregular  acres  of  the  moorland,  surefooted  and  silent 
as  one  of  his  cousins  of  the  Northern  Sioux.  His  father 
did  not  hold  out  his  hand,  but  Hearne,  accustomed  to 
the  moods  of  his  bluff  parent,  thought  nothing  of  that.  Lord 
Athabasca  came  near,  apparently  deeply  interested  in  a 
document  which  he  had  selected  out  of  his  pocketbook. 
He  stumbled  over  a  little  mound  of  peats,  left  on  the  still 
half-frozen  ground  from  last  year,  and  but  for  the  quick 
restraining  hand  of  his  son  he  would  have  gone  headlong  into 
one  of  the  "  slunks  "  or  deep  excavations  three  parts  filled 
with  black  coomby  water,  from  which  in  times  past  the 
compressed  peat  had  been  dug  in  its  raw  state. 

Lord  Athabasca  shook  his  sleeve  angrily  free  from  his 
son's  fingers,  and  reaching  out  the  letter  to  Hearne,  he 
said  abruptly,  "  Did  you  write  that?  " 

Hearne  saw  only  the  first  part.  He  knew  the  paper. 
He  was  not  a  man  to  disown  his  handiwork  in  any  cir- 
cumstances. 

"  I  did,"  he  said  instantly,  "  but " — he  hesitated  a 
moment  as  if  to  put  what  he  was  going  to  say  with  some 
care — "  I  do  not  see  what  my  letter  is  doing  open  in  your 
hands!" 

"  It  concerns  me,  sir!  "  said  Athabasca,  looking  at  him 
very  straight.  A  stare  which  Hearne  as  straightly  returned. 
"  It  concerns  me  deeply.  You  used  your  position  here — 
your  nearness  to  Egham  Castle — to  make  love  to  Miss 
Patricia,  when  you  knew  that  she  was  already  my  intended 

232 


PLOT    THE    FIRST 

wife — when  you  knew  that  all  the  preparations  had  been 
made  on  either  side  for  the  wedding.  That  is  true,  is  it 
not?" 

The  dark  face  of  the  tall  grandson  of  Crowfoot  had  by 
this  time  lost  its  flush — in  which  was  something  almost 
metallic,  like  copper  glance  from  the  mine  with  the  sun 
on  it. 

"  It  is  true!  "  he  said  simply. 

"  Then  why,  sir,"  said  his  father,  "  did  you  venture 
to  remind  her  that  I  was  an  old  man,  and  that  if  she 
would  wait  in  the  secure  retreat  which  you  had  provided  for 
her  in  a  little  while  she  might  have  all — peer,  money,  and  a 
young  lover  as  well  ?  " 

"I  do  not  know  to  what  you  refer!"  said  the  young 
man,  a  little  dazed.  "  I  never  thought  or  said  any  of  these 
things." 

"  Do  not  lie!  "  cried  his  father  threateningly.  "  I  have 
a  great  mind  to  shoot  you  where  you  stand  for  a  treacherous 
hound !  It  is  only  the  thought  of  your  mother  which  stops 
me. 

The  young  man  drew  his  head  up  haughtily,  so  stilly 
and  haughtily  indeed,  that  the  letter  which  his  father  was 
reaching  out  for  him  to  see  dropped  on  the  hard  black  peat 
and  remained  there  unnoticed  by  either. 

"  Hearne  Mackenzie,  the  son  of  Hearne  Mackenzie, 
and  grandson  of  Crowfoot,  does  not  tell  lies,"  he  said  simply. 

"  It  is  enough,"  said  Lord  Athabasca.  "  I  have  heard 
quite  enough.  You  have  robbed  me  of  the  one  thing  that 
gave  me  a  chance  to  make  the  years  of  my  old  age  worth 
living.  You  may  know,  or  you  may  not,  where  she  has 
hidden  herself " 

"  I  do  not  know!  "  said  Hearne  directly,  but  not  raising 
his  voice. 

10  233 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

"  No  matter,"  said  his  father,  "  she  fled  from  me  be- 
cause of  you." 

"  She  would  not  listen  to  me,  I  tell  you,"  said  the  young 
man.  "It  is  true  I  told  her  that  I  loved  her.  I  do  love  her. 
I  cannot  help  it.  But  she  threw  my  letter  from  her  and 
trampled  it  in  the  moss.  I  suppose  that  is  how  I  come  to 
see  my  handwriting  addressed  to  a  lady  in  your  hands?" 

Lord  Athabasca  shook  his  head  and  smiled  bitterly. 

"  You  will  not  succeed  in  making  me  angry,"  he  said ; 
"  I  am  resolved.  You  are  no  son  of  mine  from  this  moment. 
You  have  ruined  and  spoiled  me.  If  this  girl  had  not  seen 
you,  listened  to  you,  undoubtedly  she  would  have  married  me. 
You  have  counted  on  my  death,  on  my  money,  on  my  position. 
She  will  wait  for  you,  doubtless.  Very  well,  she  can.  But 
first  of  all  I  shall  take  care  that  you  lose  your  position 
here.  I  give  you  twenty-four  hours  to  get  away  without 
the  disgrace  of  dismissal.  You  can  go  back  to  the  Koote- 
nay,  and  you  will  find  your  old  logging  camp  ready  for 
you.  The  boss  will  take  you  on  at  the  old  wages.  You  are, 
I  believe,  a  good  man  with  the  ax!  " 

"  And  suppose  I  do  not?  "  said  the  young  man,  turning 
an  emotionless  and  Roman  face  on  his  father.  "  Suppose  I 
decide  to  stay?  " 

"  Then,"  said  Lord  Athabasca,  "  I  will  have  you  arrested 
for  uttering  menaces — for  threatening  to  kill  your  own 
father.  You  have  done  enough — you  had  better  go  back  to 
the  Kootenay  than  that !  " 

"I  have  done  enough — yes!"  said  Hearne  Mackenzie. 
"  I  will  resign,  sir!  "  And  saluting  his  father  gravely,  he 
turned  toward  the  gang  of  boys,  who  were  still  busy  at  the 
potato-planting  in  the  "  lazy  beds."  They  had  been  watch- 
ing the  interview  with  quick  sidelong  glances,  but  not  even 
the  Swanker  had  noticed  anything  out  of  the  way. 

234 


PLOT    THE    FIRST 

"  They  seemed  glad  to  see  each  other,"  commented  that 
young  gentleman,  "  and  the  old  bird — he  tipped  Mr.  Hearne 
a  piece  o'  paper — I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it  was  a  five  poun' 
note!  " 

Hearne  Mackenzie  saw  out  the  end  of  his  working  day, 
and  then,  all  the  potatoes  being  set  in  their  proper  places 
and  relations,  the  "  lazy  beds  "  all  covered  up,  he  conducted 
his  gang  home  and  went  to  break  the  news  to  Carvel.* 

"  Do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  the  superintendent;  "  stay 
where  you  are.  I  have  as  much  influence  with  the  directors 
as  he  has,  though  he  is  chairman.  Besides,  it  was  your 
money — most  of  it " 

"  Don't  let  us  go  into  that,"  said  Hearne  Mackenzie, 
hastily  for  once ;  "  I  have  passed  my  word  to  my  father ! 
I  must  go!  " 

So  the  first  part  of  Schoolmaster  Simeon's  combinations 
had  come  off  all  right.  He  laughed  that  night  when  he 
heard  that  Mr.  Hearne  was  to  go  back  to  Canada  without 
any  of  the  boys  accompanying  him. 

"  I  bet  a  sov.,"  he  said  to  old  Isaac  Brotherton,  "  that 
this  is  the  last  the  '  Peat '  will  see  of  him.  More  than  that, 
I'll  be  in  his  cottage  in  six  months!" 

Old  Isaac  merely  remarked  that  he  would  not  take  him 
up.  He  was  no  vain  wagerer,  whose  gold  passeth  away  "  as 
the  morning  cloud,  and  as  the  early  dew  " — see  Hosea  vi,  4. 

Mr.  Hearne  Mackenzie  left  the  reformatory  which  bore 
his  name  in  the  latter  days  of  a  brisk,  dry-blowing  March, 
when  the  stinging  showers  from  the  east  made  a  man  look 
at  his  coat  before  he  could  tell  whether  he  had  had  to  do  with 
snow,  sleet,  or  only  plain  ice  water  expressed  from  some 
celestial  hose  pipe  at  very  high  pressure  indeed. 

By  the  advice  of  Carvel,  he  took  up  his  abode  at  the  com- 
fortable little  inn   at  Kingside,   an   old  coaching  "  stance," 

235 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

and  now  again  with  the  rush  of  cyclists  becoming  a  "  kenned 
place  "  for  the  quality  of  its  ham  and  eggs  and  the  affability 
of  its  landlady,  Mistress  McWhan,  whose  family  of  pretty 
daughters  departed  promptly  one  by  one,  as  they  grew  up, 
in  company  with  one  or  other  of  the  aforesaid  cyclists,  bound 
to  them  by  the  memory  of  many  ham-and-egg  teas,  and 
looking  very  often  at  a  plain  gold  ring  on  the  fourth  finger 
of  the  left  hand. 

Hearne  arrived  at  the  Kingside  Inn  after  the  departure 
of  most  of  these  pretty  daughters,  when  the  remnant,  two 
in  number,  were  "  veesitin'  their  married  sisters,"  it  being  the 
dead  time  of  the  year  at  Kingside.  So  Mrs.  McWhan,  all 
sympathy  and  personal  attention,  waited  herself  on  the 
grave,  polite  young  man  with  the  dusky  skin,  whose  father 
was  believed,  on  the  word  of  Mr.  Carvel,  superintendent 
of  the  "  Peat,"  to  have  behaved  so  shamefully  to  him. 

During  the  days  which  followed  Hearne  tried  his  best  to 
search  out  Patricia.  He  even  went  and  interviewed  her 
father,  but  found  himself,  as  the  cause  of  the  terrible  fiasco 
of  the  heiress-ship,  driven  from  the  door  of  Balmaghie  by 
that  indignant  justice  of  the  peace. 

He  succeeded  better  with  Baby  Lant,  who  at  sight  of 
his  clean-cut,  clean-shaven  face,  and  the  aristocratic  hook 
of  his  Roman  nose — the  direct  legacy  of  the  late  Crowfoot, 
great  war  chief — instantly  dismissed  a  certain  Freddy 
Blaine,  a  young  and  callow  squire  of  the  neighborhood,  who 
was  making  desperate  love  to  her,  and  threatening  to  split 
his  riding  breeches — extra  well  fitting — by  bending  fervently 
and  impressively  forward  to  tell  her  how  the  color  of  her 
eyes  affected  him. 

"Go  away,"  she  said;  "I've  heard  all  that  before— 
hundreds  of  times!  " 

Then  she  went  out  walking. 
236 


PLOT    THE    FIRST 

She  met  Hearne  at  the  turn  of  the  road,  where,  in  the 
times  that  were  past,  Patricia  had  dragooned  Marthe  and 
Willie.  Baby  Lant  needed  no  such  encouragements  or  ex- 
cuses. With  but  one  daughter  left  at  home,  her  parents 
were  more  "  amenable,"  as  Mrs.  P.  Brydson  McGhie  had 
once  said — ah,  how  erroneously  of  Patricia. 

All  the  same — well,  all  the  same — it  was  lonely  for 
Baby  Lant  at  Balmaghie  these  days,  with  Marthe  caring 
only  about  Willie's  sermons  and  white-seam  sewing  of  a 
mysterious  and  delicate  kind. 

And  Pat — well,  Pat —  "  Over  the  hills  and  far  away!  " 
That  was  all  that  could  be  said  of  Pat. 

Baby  Lant  bent  her  great  wondering  blue  eyes — real 
blue,  as  blue  as  the  sky,  for  instance — on  the  young  man's 
face.  Yes,  he  was  handsome,  distinguished — but  oh,  how 
grave!  Baby  Lant  began  to  think  she  liked  grave  men. 
Baby  Lant  made  up  a  complete  romance,  in  which  she  made 
love  to  herself  in  a  fashion  perfectly  irresistible.  She  wrote 
herself  the  most  charming  love  letters.  She  proposed  for 
herself.  After  delightful  tos-and-fros,  she  was  accepted,  and 
on  the  eve  of  marriage — all  to  the  aforesaid  grave  young 
man — when  with  his  hat  off  he  explained  in  answer  to  her 
question  his  purposes  on  her  father's  lands  and  policies. 

"  To  find  Patricia — oh !  "  she  said,  her  eyes  becoming 
full  of  the  most  thrilling  interest — nine  times  more  beautiful 
and  fuller  of  emotion  than  when  she  had  only  looked  upon 
him  as  a  possible  additional  lover  of  her  own,  "  are  you — 
Lord  Athabasca's  son  ?  " 

The  young  man  nodded,  and  a  vivid  flush  rose  to  either 
cheek  bone,  remaining  there  as  if  it  had  been  touched  by  the 
grand  paternal  war  paint. 

"  Did — Miss  Patricia — your  sister — speak  to  you  of  me, 
by  any  chance?"  he  faltered. 

237 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

"  Pat  tell  me?  "  said  Baby  Lant  with  such  a  glance  out 
of  her  big  blue  liquid  eyes  that  would  have  "  knocked  Freddy 
Blaine  silly  "  if  he  had  encountered  the  like.  "  Pat  tell  me?  " 
she  repeated  severely.  "  Well,  young  man,  I  don't  quite 
see  what  you  have  to  do  with  that!  " 

"  Do  you  know  where  she  is?  "  said  Hearne  Mackenzie, 
abandoning  his  first  position. 

"  That  also  comes  under  the  category  of  things  which 
are  not  the  business  of  wandering  young  men,"  said  Baby 
Lant  saucily. 

"  But  it  is  of  tremendous  importance  to  me,"  said 
Hearne,  bending  his  black,  long-lashed  eyes  squarely  on 
the  liquid  blue  ones. 

"  I  dare  say,"  said  Baby  Lant,  "  but  it  needn't  bring  you 
all  this  way  up  the  avenue.  We  shall  have  a  bulletin  board 
fixed  at  the  corner.  Then  Pat's  friends  can  read  the  latest 
dispatches  from  the  seat  of  war,  and  go  their  way  without 
putting  father  in  a  temper!  Now  he  won't  be  bearable  all 
evening — perhaps  not  for  a  week !  I  suppose  you  have  been 
up  at  him,  and  he  has  growled  at  you  like  a  bear  with  a  sore 
head?  " 

"  He  did  request  me  to  leave  his  property  as  soon  as 
might  be!"  said  Hearne  Mackenzie,  as  gravely  and  quietly 
as  ever. 

"  Ah,"  sighed  Baby  Lant,  "  it's  a  pity  you  did  not  fall 
in  love  with  me  instead  of  Pat!  Then  you  would  have  had 
no  bother — except  from  me,  that  is.  My  father  just  aches 
to  get  me  off  his  hands!  And  sometimes  he  is  such  a  cross- 
patch  that  I  just  ache  for  somebody  to  take  me.  You  un- 
derstand me?  " 

Some  young  men  would  not  have  understood,  and  pre- 
sumed— to  their  destruction.  But  Hearne  Mackenzie  was 
not  of  this  kind. 

238 


PLOT    THE    FIRST 

He  came  from  a  land  where  a  fair  woman  is  a  scarce 
article,  her  favors  of  exceeding  price,  and  where  a  revolver 
bullet  at  short  range  pays  in  full  for  any  little  misunder- 
standing. So  Hearne  Mackenzie  only  remarked  gravely  that 
it  was  a  pity. 

The  pout  of  Baby  Lant's  mouth  was  something  to  re- 
member in  dreams.  But  she  was  not  angry.  Far — very 
far,  indeed,  from  it. 

"You  love  Pat?"  she  queried,  standing  indomitably 
before  him. 

"/  do!"  Hearne  answered,  as  simply  as  if  in  a  church. 
He  saw  no  reason  why  he  should  be  ashamed  of  a  fact  which 
was  a  fact  and  could  not  be  changed. 

Baby  Lant  put  out  her  hand  with  a  rather  mannish 
gesture,  picked  up  from  her  Brother  Gilbert,  though,  indeed, 
there  was  nothing  else  mannish  about  her. 

"Shake!"  she  said.  This  also  had  been  acquired  from 
Gilbert. 

And  Hearne  Mackenzie,  with  a  first  beam  of  gladness 
in  those  deep  eyes,  in  which  joy  and  pain  made  such  slight 
showing,  put  his  hand  silently  into  Baby  Lant's. 

"  I  would  kiss  you  just  to  cement  the  relationship — for 
Pat's  sake,  that  is,"  she  said,  "  but  I  have  a  feeling  that 
Freddy  Blaine — I  sent  him  off  just  before  you  came — is 
skulking  somewhere  along  the  carriage  drive  that  goes  up 
to  the  stables.  And  I  don't  want  to  compromise  you  !  But 
all  the  same,  as  Pat  herself  used  to  say  to  Marthe  and  Willie, 
1  Bless  you,  my  children!  '  " 

"  And  her  address?  "  said  Hearne  quietly. 

"Oh,  you  men!"  cried  Baby  Lant  laughing.  "When 
you  are  not  in  love,  no  butterfly  so  uncertain,  no  dragon  fly 
so  jumpy-off-at-an-angle!  But  once  you  are  in  love — 
realsome,   that  is,  not  like  Silly   Freddy  watching  through 

239 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

the  bushes  yonder — you  '  keep  in  the  middle  of  the  road,' 
and  avalanches  and  earthquakes  are  quite  unable  to  turn  you. 
Why,  even  I  can't  do  it  myself/ 

"'Patricia's  address?'  We  don't  know  it — that's  flat. 
Moreover,  it's  perfectly  true,  but  if  you  don't  tell  anybody,  I 
do  know  that  she's  all  safe.  She's  learning  nursing,  or  doing 
something  extra  angelic — fagging  after  poor  people,  as  all 
girls  do  when  they  can't  get  the  man  they  want  just  when 
they  want  him — and  start  their  own  little  happiness  factory 
with  man  attachment,  nursery  annexes,  kitchen,  scullery, 
and  garden  plot,  all  complete  and  self-contained.  Of 
course  I  mean  to  do  the  same  wThen  my  time  comes.  You 
needn't  look  at  me  like  that,  Mr.  Hearne  Mackenzie!  It 
won't  be  you  that  will  drive  me  to  it.  For  you  are  Pat's 
property,  and  there's  honor  among — well,  among  all  nice 
girls,"  concluded  Baby  Lant  somewhat  lamely. 

"  However,"  she  went  on,  "  now  I  am  studying  up  the 
rapt,  self-sacrificing  expression,  so  as  to  be  all  ready  to 
do  the  interesting  virgin  martyr.  But  I'm  going  to  have 
a  nursing  home,  and  take  only  interesting  cases — slightly 
wounded  young  officers  home  from  the  war,  clergyman's 
sore  throat  (curates  only),  authors  under  forty  (no  poets 
need  apply),  and  respectable  young  men  of  good  appearance 
who  have  been  in  the  Nor'west  Mounted  Police — and 
have  been  injured  permanently  by  having  so  little  to 
do!" 

Hearne  Mackenzie  opened  his  mouth  as  if  to  ask  her 
how  a  girl  could  know  all  that.  But  he  thought  better  of 
it.  It  appeared  that  there  did  not  seem  many  things 
which  innocent,  blue-eyed  Baby  Lant  did  not  know, 
except  the  one  thing  that  interested  him — her  elder  sister's 
address! 

"  But,"  said  Baby  Lant,  "  though  your  appreciation  of 
240 


PLOT    THE    FIRST 

my  charms  cannot  be  said  to  be  overwhelming,  I  will  take 
pity  on  you.  Leave  me  your  address,  and  I  will  send  you 
such  news  of  Pat  as  reaches  me.  I  will  filter  the  yield  on 
your  behoof.  You  shall  have  the  electric-separator  first- 
quality  gold,  the  cyanide-process  bars — and  I  will  keep  only 
the  strictly  feminine  by-products  for  myself — the  things 
which  it  is  good  for  no  man  to  know.  If  he  does,  he  dies 
young  and  unregretted — in  the  neighborhood  of  Morning- 
side  or  Colney  Hatch.  And  then  everyone  thinks  it  was 
in  the  family,  when  really  all  that  was  the  matter  with  him 
was  just  that  he  knew  too  much!  From  this  will  I  save 
you,  Mr.  Hearne  Mackenzie.  In  the  meantime  take  this 
information  on  the  most  authoritative  official  declaration 
'  communicated  to  the  press.'  My  sister  Patricia  McGhie 
(late  Egham  Boreham-Egham)  is  well  and  healthy,  especial- 
ly at  the  hours  of  eight,  one,  and  seven — when  she  takes  her 
meals.  But  as  she  shows  a  quite  new  and  marvelous  dis- 
position to  become  a  district  nurse,  unprejudiced  persons 
like  myself,  who  remember  the  old  Pat,  are  of  the  opinion 
that  there  is  a  man  in  the  question.  Good  evening.  Mr. 
Hearne  Mackenzie,  think  this  well  over  before  you  decide 
to  emigrate.  '  Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes  and  suck- 
lings,' you  know —  And  speaking  of  sucklings,  reminds 
me — you  can  send  me  a  box  of  candies.  Mine  are  '  out.' 
And  I  think  I  deserve  them,  wasting  my  time  on  Pat's  young 
men  like  this,  with  Freddy  watching  over  in  the  covers 
yonder,  as  sulky  as  a  badger!  " 

And  there  is  little  doubt  that,  all  things  considered,  Baby 
Lant  was  well  deserving  of  the  beautiful  box  of  candied  fruits 
which,  with  one  of  his  few  remaining  sovereigns,  Mr. 
Hearne  Mackenzie  bought  for  her. 

And  the  last  thing  he  heard  as  he  went  down  the  avenue 
was  the  clear  silver  of  Baby  Lant's  tones  calling,  "  Freddy 

241 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

— Freddy!  come  out  and  take  me    for  a  ride!    You  needn't 
sulk!     I  know  you  are  there!     Come,  I  want  you!" 

A  heart  singularly  whole  and  intact  had  Miss  Atalanta, 
youngest  and  only  resident  daughter  of  Mr.  P.  Brydson 
McGhie,  J.  P.,  of  Balmaghie,  in  the  free  province  of 
Galloway  and  Stewartry  of  Kirkcudbright. 


242 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

PLOT    THE    SECOND 

R.  SCHOOLMASTER  SIMEON  GRAIN- 

ER  rubbed  his  hands.  His  first,  the  plot 
deceitful,  had  worked  to  a  marvel.  The 
second,  that  against  Carvel,  the  superin- 
tendent, was  more  dangerous  but  also,  as 
it  seemed  to  him,  more  certain  of  success. 

"  It  is  simply  impossible  that  Carvel  can  have  made  all 
that  money  honestly,"  he  said,  as  he  referred  to  some  figures 
transcribed  into  a  little  pocketbook  of  his  own.  "  Why, 
it's  more  than  the  whole  amount  of  his  salary  ever  since 
he  came  to  the  institution!  I  have  him  sure — especially 
now  when  young  Mr.  Hearne  is  done  for!  " 

Now,  what  Grainer,  the  soft-handed,  cruel-mouthed 
schoolmaster  had  in  his  mind  was  very  simple.  The  "  Peat  " 
Reformatory  having  been  erected  by  private  subscription, 
largely  with  the  moneys  of  Lord  Athabasca  and  his  son, 
there  was  naturally  a  considerable  amount  of  patriarchal 
simplicity  in  its  management. 

Carvel,  the  superintendent,  a  man  of  known  probity, 
received  everything — subscriptions,  donations,  government 
grants,  earnings  of  the  different  shops.  He  also  paid  out 
everything — the  monthly  accounts  of  the  furnishers  and 
providers  of  victual,  wages,   gratuities,   taxes,   running  ex- 

243 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

penses.  Four  times  a  year  Lord  Athabasca,  who  loved  any- 
thing that  had  to  do  with  figures  or  scented  of  strict  business, 
would  drive  over  from  Three  Ridings,  and  audit  the  books 
and  vouchers  himself.  There  he  would  labor  all  a  winter's 
day,  tasting  nothing  more  than  a  glass  of  water  and  a  biscuit, 
Carvel  seated  on  a  chair  near  him,  ready  to  explain  anything 
which  turned  up. 

It  came  about,  therefore,  that  Carvel  had  generally  to 
pay  his  own  salary.  And  so,  on  one  occasion,  being  a  trust- 
ing man,  not  given  to  thinking  evil,  nor  to  suspecting  it 
in  others,  he  had  handed  his  bank  pass  book  over  to  Mr. 
Schoolmaster  Grainer,  who  had  asked  permission  to  go  to 
the  town  for  the  afternoon,  with  the  request  that  he  would 
pay  in  the  £50  which  constituted  the  quarterly  salary  of  the 
superintendent. 

"  I  have  him,"  said  the  amiable  Simeon,  as  soon  as  he 
had  managed  to  get  a  quiet  half  hour  with  the  figures  which 
were  contained  in  the  slim,  little  blue  book.  "  Carvel  has 
brought  up  a  large  family  while  superintendent  of  the 
"  Peat  "  without  touching  a  single  penny  of  his  screw!  " 

And  in  the  night  which  supervened,  before  he  could 
give  it  back  to  Carvel,  he  had  made  a  copy  of  the  whole 
book.  Therefore,  he  had  only  to  put  his  statement  before 
the  directors,  and,  as  bankers'  records  are  practically  inde- 
structible, Carvel's  own  bank  must  perforce  bear  out  the 
correctness  of  his  figures. 

"  It's  a  clean  cop !  "  he  said  over  and  over  to  himself — 
partly  because  he  believed  it  and  partly  to  give  himself 
courage.  It  needed  some  courage,  for  if  the  superintendent 
were  not  dismissed — he,  Simeon  Grainer,  would  most  cer- 
tainly be.  This  accusation  he  could  not  make,  like  the  last, 
anonymously;  he  must  come  out  of  his  rat  hole  and  attack 
his  chief  in  the  open.     Simeon  liked  this  little  enough,  but 

244 


PLOT    THE    SECOND 

he  possessed  that  curious  sort  of  desperate  courage  which 
belongs  to  the  flea  and  other  backbiting  vermin.  He  would 
attack  something  ten  times  greater  than  himself,  trusting 
to  his  activity  for  escape. 

But  somehow  he  could  not  quite  bring  himself  to  do  it 
without  the  semblance  of  a  quarrel  with  Carvel.  And  Car- 
vel, who,  though  occasionally  hasty,  meddled  with  nobody's 
business,  was  always  the  first  to  make  apologies  and  make 
amends,  even  when  he  had  been  in  the  right. 

Grainer  hit  upon  it,  however,  as  excuses  to  quarrel  can 
be  found  even  with  the  most  long-suffering  of  men. 

An  unusual  turmoil  in  the  schoolroom  had  brought  the 
superintendent  on  the  scene,  and  Grainer  was  found  in  the 
act  of  most  brutally  abusing  a  boy — one  of  his  favorite  butts 
— who  on  inquiry  was  found  to  have  done  nothing  amiss. 

"He  has  a  pick  at  him!"  said  the  only  witness  who 
could  be  induced  to  speak.  Carvel  promised  to  make  inqui- 
sition on  the  following  morning  himself,  and  as  a  result  he 
called  for  Mr.  Simeon  Grainer,  and  remonstrated  with  him 
privately  in  his  own  room. 

"  I  had  intended,"  said  Carvel,  "  at  to-morrow's  meet- 
ing of  directors  to  ask  them  to  appoint  you  assistant  super- 
intendent in  the  place  of  Mr.  Hearne  Mackenzie,  who  has 
suddenly  resigned ;  but  your  brutality  toward  the  boys  is 
such  that  I  don't  know  that  I  can  conscientiously  do  it, 
Grainer.  And  it  is  not  a  thing  of  yesterday.  Many  have 
noticed  it.  My  attention  has  been  called  to  it  ever  since 
you  came  here  first.  I  have  often  been  ashamed — yes, 
actually  and  positively  ashamed,  Grainer — when  taking 
visitors  over  the  reformatory  to  hear  the  screams  of  pain 
coming  from  your  department !  " 

"  I  do  not  take  such  words  from  any  man,"  said  the 
schoolmaster  sullenly;   "the  directors  shall  judge  between 

245 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

us.  I  have  a  little  paper  to  put  before  them  which  may 
perhaps  prevent  you  having  to  show  any  more  visitors 
about  the  reformatory.  And  I  am  not  asking  your  recom- 
mendation as  assistant  superintendent.  I  have  the  best  of 
reasons  for  knowing  that  the  post  of  superintendent  in  chief 
will  soon  be  vacant.     /  mean  to  apply  for  that  !  " 

Carvel  burst  into  a  shout  of  hearty  laughter. 

"  Why,  man,"  he  cried,  clapping  his  chest,  "  I  wish  you 
joy.  But  you  may  have  a  long  time  to  wait.  I  am  as 
sound  as  ever  I  was.  I'm  not  going  to  turn  my  toes  up 
to  the  daisies,  that  I  know  of.  But  if  I  am — why,  you  are 
welcome  to  my  old  shoes  as  anybody  else.  You  are  a  good 
teacher,  if  only  you  would  be  a  bit  more  kindly  with  the 
boys!  " 

Carvel  thought  no  evil.  It  was  not  in  him.  And  he 
scarcely  heard  the  sullen  dominie's  murmur  of  anger,  "  Well, 
I've  warned  you,  that's  all!  You  can't  say  but  what  I've 
warned  you!  " 

Carvel  thought  no  more  about  the  matter,  but  went 
his  free,  breezy,  manly,  wholesome,  Christian  way,  distrib- 
uting praise  and  blame  in  the  proportions  of  about  ten  to 
one,  accompanying  his  progress  through  the  "  shops  "  with 
sundry  playful  pinches  on  the  ears,  more  decisive  raps  over 
the  knuckles,  and  sometimes,  in  extreme  cases,  a  "  lunder  " 
across  the  shoulders  with  "  Clickie  " — all  which  did  nobody 
any  harm,  but  instead  raised  a  laugh  as  soon  as  his  tall, 
thin  form  with  the  finely  cut  head  and  stooping  shoulders 
had  passed  on  to  another  department. 

There  was,  as  Carvel  had  said,  an  important  meeting 
of  directors  called  for  the  morrow  under  the  presidency  of 
Lord  Athabasca.  The  business  first  on  the  schedule  was 
the  reception  of  the  resignation  of  Mr.  Hearne  Mackenzie, 
on  which  occasion  a  statement  was  expected,   either  from 

246 


PLOT    THE    SECOND 

the  young  man  himself  or  from  his  father,  as  to  what  his 
position  with  regard  to  the  future  work  of  the  reformatory 
would  be. 

But  Hearne's  letter,  brief  and  to  the  point,  settled  only 
the  financial  question.  He  resigned  his  position  with  regret. 
He  had  been  perfectly  happy  in  the  work,  but  affairs  of  a 
private  nature  had  occurred  which  made  it  inexpedient  that 
he  should  longer  hold  any  salaried  position  in  connection 
with  the  institution.  He  asked  the  court  of  directors,  in 
their  corporate  capacity,  to  accept  as  a  free  gift  all  the  bonds 
which  he  held  upon  the  property,  and,  indeed,  all  his  mone- 
tary interests  in  the  "  Hearne  Mackenzie."  If  it  could  be 
called  the  Athabasca  Reformatory,  in  consideration  of  the 
recent  peerage  bestowed  upon  the  chairman,  his  father,  he 
would  be  still  better  pleased. 

Lord  Athabasca  was  observed  to  grunt  several  times 
during  the  reading  of  this  letter.  He  also  shuffled  his  feet, 
but  made  no  remark  beyond  the  bald  statement  that  he  sup- 
posed the  directors  had  no  choice  but  to  accept  the  resigna- 
tion of  Mr.  Hearne  Mackenzie  and  to  pass  to  the  next 
business. 

But  the  sensation  of  the  meeting  was  yet  to  come. 

A  letter  was  put  into  the  honorary  secretary's  hand  re- 
questing, on  behalf  of  Mr.  Simeon  Grainer,  schoolmaster  at 
the  "  Hearne  Mackenzie  "  Reformatory,  the  honor  and  favor 
of  an  audience.  He  had  something  of  the  highest  and  most 
immediate  importance  to  communicate  to  the  honorable  the 
court  of  directors. 

"  Oh,  hang  it !  "  said  Mr.  Anthony  Cairntable,  the  bluff, 
cherubic-faced  secretary.  "  What  can  the  man  mean,  ad- 
dressing us  in  this  way?  We  are  not  the  East  India  Com- 
pany or  the  Court  of  Chancery!  What  can  he  want?  An 
addition  to  his  salary,  most  likely." 

247 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

"  I  suppose  we  had  better  have  him  in  and  let  him 
say  his  say!  "  broke  in  ex-Banker  Murray,  of  Fellnawe.  "  I 
never  believe  in  bottling  a  man  up.  If  there  is  bad  blood, 
it  may  be  the  better  of  a  little  letting!  " 

But  no  one  had  the  least  idea  of  what  was  really  coming. 

"Show  in  Mr.  Simeon  Grainer!" 

The  senior  warder,  who  rejoiced  in  the  cognomen  of 
Giant  Pagan,  saluted  stolidly,  as  he  would  have  done  if 
Grainer  had  been  ordered  to  instant  execution,  and  left  to 
choose  his  own  firing  party.  He  had  been  a  sergeant  in 
the  Black  Watch,  and  his  good-humored  countenance  ex- 
pressed when  on  duty  all  the  ordered  Sabbatic  pomp  charac- 
teristic of  that  formidable  regiment. 

Mr.  Simeon  Grainer  entered,  a  little  stoutish  man, 
tallowy  rather  than  fat,  with  eyes  that  were  pale,  and 
flabby  cheeks  which  trembled,  quick,  nervous  hands, 
evidently  scared  into  a  desperate  courage — the  gamester's 
grip  on  the  dicebox  when  he  has  staked  his  all  on  a  single 
throw. 

Carvel  sat  at  the  far  end  of  the  table — tall,  emaciated, 
with  a  head  compounded  of  that  attributed  to  the  Apostle 
Peter  and  that  of  a  certain  great  general.  Carvel  was  bored. 
Directors'  meetings  always  bored  him.  He  drummed  with 
long,  thin,  almost  translucent  fingers  on  the  table.  He  knew 
nothing  of  what  was  coming,  and  if  he  had  known  he  would 
not  have  cared ;  only  he  would  have  been  sorry  for  Grainer. 
That  was  the  sort  of  man  Carvel  was.  If  there  was  any 
other  person  to  think  about  before  himself,  he  thought  of 
that  person.  And  even  if  he  had  known  that  Grainer  was 
going  to  do  him  the  most  dastardly  act  possible  as  between 
master  and  man,  "Poor  devil!"  is  all  that  Carvel  would 
have  said. 

The  world  could  do  with  more  Carvels,  but  the  worst 
248 


PLOT    THE    SECOND 

of  it  is  that  such  men  are  not  raised  in  quantity  nor  grown 
from  cuttings. 

"Well,  speak  up,  schoolmaster!"  said  Lord  Athabasca 
sharply.  He  had  not  yet  got  over  his  son's  letter.  The 
directors  stopped  sketching  devils  on  the  blotting  paper, 
biting  the  ends  of  their  pencils,  and  searching  their  inner 
breast  pockets  for  quite  unnecessary  papers,  each  according 
to  his  habit  at  meetings.  They  attended  to  Grainer,  look- 
ing at  him  with  a  calm,  dispassionate  absence  of  interest, 
which  was  intensely  galling  to  the  trembling  and  treacher- 
ous man  of  tallow. 

"  I  believe,"  he  thought,  "  they  think  I  am  going  to 
complain  of  the  ventilation,  or  the  quality  of  ink  supplied 
in  the  school — I'll  show  them!" 

The  rat  was  in  the  corner  now  and  showing  his  teeth. 

"  I  shall  have  to  prove  to  you,"  he  said  slowly  and 
deliberately,  "  that  your  confidence  in  your  present  superin- 
tendent is  misplaced.  I  can  prove  that — Mr. — ah — Carvel 
has  systematically  been  heaping  up  money  at  the  expense  of 
the  institution.  His  bank  book — his  current  pass  book 
merely,  mind  you,  gentlemen — came  by  accident  into  my 
hands  recently,  and  I  found  that  he  has  at  this  moment 
more  money  lying  to  his  credit  in  the  bank  than  the  amount 
of  his  legitimate  salary  for  the  whole  time  he  has  been  super- 
intendent of  the  "  Hearne  Mackenzie  "  Reformatory.  Where 
did  this  money  come  from  ?  From  the  receipts,  gentlemen, 
by  a  careful  manipulation  of  the  accounts,  which  have  never 
been  properly  certified  during  all  these  years  since  the  foun- 
dation of  the  reformatory!  The  present  superintendent  has 
brought  up  and  educated  a  large  family  on  nothing,  gentle- 
men, besides  laying  away  thousands  of  pounds  in  the  bank! 
The  amount  of  his  other  investments  I  cannot  give,  but 
they  are  considerable.  It  grieves  me,  gentlemen,  to  lay  the 
17  249 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

facts  before  you,  but  loyalty  to  the  bread  I  have  eaten  and 
to  the  worthy  gentlemen  I  have  served  in  a  humble  but 
necessary  capacity  emboldens  me  to  take  the  present  step. 
This  very  day,  gentlemen,  the  superintendent  for  the  second 
time  offered  me  the  position  of  assistant,  but  I  refused  it  as 
I  would  have  refused  any  other  gift  coming  from  such  pol- 
luted hands." 

Grainer  stood  a  moment,  trying  to  read  the  effect  of  his 
words,  his  cruel  mouth  shut  like  a  rat  trap  and  his  little 
eyes  passing  rapidly  from  one  face  to  another  all  about  the 
board-room  table.  He  could  read  little  there.  Attention 
he  had  certainly  gained  to  the  full.  Some  moved  uneasily 
and  muttered  vaguely.  Carvel,  who  alone  sat  quite  un- 
moved, continued  to  look  at  his  then  white  fingers  thought- 
fully, as  if  he  were  not  sure  of  their  number.  Lord  Atha- 
basca was  staring  at  the  schoolmaster  with  that  straight, 
open-air,  "  kick-him-downstairs  "  look  which  his  lordship's 
opponents  in  Colonial  parliaments  had  found  so  dis- 
concerting. There  was  a  faint  smile  about  the  mouth  of 
ex-Banker  Murray,  of  Fellnawe,  as  he  played  with  his 
pencil. 

Encouraged  by  the  silence,  Simeon  began  again: 

"  I  think  you  will  allow  that  the  circumstances  fully 
warranted  an  appeal  to  you,  gentlemen " 

"Fully!"  said  Lord  Athabasca,  the  strong  masculine 
gust  of  his  voice  making  all  those  start  who  were  not  look- 
ing at  him.  Only  Carvel  continued  indolently  the  inspec- 
tion of  the  fingers  of  his  left  hand.  He  did  not  seem 
satisfied  with  the  little  one.  Then  he  held  his  whole  hand 
up  against  the  window  as  if  to  study  some  problem  con- 
nected with  the  circulation  of  the  blood. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  from  your  lordship  that  you  con- 
sider my  appeal  fully  justified,"  said  Grainer,  "  and  I  hope 

250 


PLOT    THE    SECOND 

that  every  gentleman  present  will  understand  that  I  have 
only  spoken  out  of  the  highest  regard  for  the  best  interests  of 
the  '  Hearne  Mackenzie'  Reformatory!" 

"  Perfectly,"  said  Lord  Athabasca,  in  his  clear,  dom- 
inating voice.  "  You  can  now  retire,  and  the  directors  will 
consider  which  course  they  are  to  pursue." 

"  Is  not  the  present  superintendent,"  said  Grainer,  anx- 
iously clinging  to  the  adjective,  "  to  go  out  also?  " 

"  We  may  need  some  information  from  Mr.  Carvel," 
said  the  chairman  quietly.  "  Meantime  you  can  go  and 
wait  outside." 

"The  books  of  the  bank  can  prove  what  I  say!"  he 
remarked  a  little  anxiously.     "  I  am  speaking  the   truth." 

His  lordship  waved  a  hand  in  the  direction  of  the  door. 
He  did  not  deign  Mr.  Grainer  any  further  speech. 

"  See  that  he  waits  at  the  far  side  of  the  exercising 
yard,  warder!  "  ordered  my  lord. 

The  ex-"  non-com  "  of  the  Forty-second  saluted  the  board 
as  if  it  had  been  a  court  martial. 

"  He  will  be  finding  himself  there  presently,"  he  mur- 
mured. Again  saluting,  he  erected  a  semaphore  hand  of 
brawny  stuff — woven  steel  and  four-horse-power  attachments 
— at  least  so  Grainer  thought  the  next  moment,  as  Giant 
Pagan  caught  him  lingering  outside  with'  an  ear  obviously 
strained  in  the  direction  of  the  board  room. 

"  To  the  exercising  yard — south  side.  I'll  take  ye  there 
meeself!  "  said  ex-Sergeant  Pagan.  And  the  little  stooping 
slug  of  a  man  with  the  fox's  face  went  trotting  across  the 
yard  to  his  appointed  station.  He  demanded  of  Giant  Pagan 
to  be  informed  why  he,  a  schoolmaster  and  proximate  super- 
intendent, should  thus  be  at  the  mercy  of  a  mere  warder. 
He  threatened.  He  menaced.  His  voice  cracked  and  broke. 
Warder  Pagan  would  certainly  lose  his  position  when  he 

251 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

got  back  before  the  board  if  he  did  not  instantly  let  go  his 
collar  and  give  a  reason  for  such  treatment. 

"Orders!"  said  ex-Sergeant  Pagan.  "And  shut  your 
mouth !  " 

He  was  returning  to  his  sentinel's  post  when  a  thought 
struck  him.  "  And  there's  your  beat,"  he  called  back;  "  from 
one  side  o'  the  yaird  to  the  ither.  And  if  ye  come  an  inch 
nearer — weel,  ye  will  ken  what  the  rogue's  march  to  clink 
means  in  the  Forty-twa — and  that's  something  to  ken  in 
itsel'!" 

In  the  board  room  there  was  a  somewhat  strained 
silence.  They  were  all  honorable  men,  but  some  few  of 
them  a  little  dense.  And  Carvel's  silence  and  indifference, 
together  with  Lord  Athabasca's  strange  manner  to  School-- 
master  Grainer  (who  always  had  a  good  annual  report), 
might  very  well  conceal  something.  So  they  waited  and  eyed 
Carvel,  without  appearing  to  do  so. 

Still  Carvel  did  not  speak.  He  had  commenced  the  in- 
spection of  the  right  hand  now,  and  his  boot,  aswing  over 
the  other  leg  in  his  usual  languid  pose,  moved  not  a  beat 
the  faster.  But  the  hearts  of  all  the  members  did  so  in- 
stead, as  is  always  the  case  when  a  man  is  felt  to  be  on 
trial  for  his  life.  There  were  two  exceptions.  Lord  Atha- 
basca stared  at  the  shut  door,  and  appeared  to  listen  for  the 
returning  footsteps  of  Giant  Pagan,  the  sentry  and  guardian 
in  times  of  scath.  Presently  he  heard  them — stolid,  wooden, 
regular  as  ever — pass  the  door,  turn  at  the  end  of  the  cor- 
ridor, and  come  back,  waxing  louder  till  they  again  began 
to  fade  away  along  the  passage  to  the  left.  Then  Lord 
Athabasca  knew  that  there  would  be  no  listeners  to  what 
he  was  going  to  say,  so  long  as  the  ex-"  non-com  "  trod 
statedly  without. 

He  looked  at  ex-Banker  Murray,  who  continued  to  smile 
252 


PLOT    THE    SECOND 

into  his  big  mustache,  and  seemed  hugely  interested  in  the 
accurate  pointing  of  his  pencil.  Carvel  was  absorbed  in  the 
middle  joint  of  his  ring  finger.  Board  meetings  were  a  bore. 
He  had  always  thought  so. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Lord  Athabasca,  "  I  don't  often 
quote  Scripture — you  will  bear  me  out  in  that — but  there's 
a  good  deal  of  solid  business  in  the  book  which  has  Proverbs 
written  at  the  top  of  each  page.  He  was  no  fool  who  wrote 
it,  and  what  we  have  heard  reminds  me  of  what  I  was  read- 
ing last  Sunday  in  church  when  the  clergyman  was  address- 
ing 'A  Few  Words  to  Mothers.'  It  was  this:  'A  fool's 
mouth  is  his  destruction,  and  his  lips  are  the  snare  of  his 
soul.'  " 

"  No,  don't  speak,  Carvel;  you  have  no  need  to!  "  said 
ex-Banker  Murray  hastily. 

"I  wasn't  going  to!"  said  Carvel,  in  wrapped  ad- 
miration of  the  pale  half-moon  at  the  base  of  his  middle 
finger. 

"  Twenty  words  or  thereby,  gentlemen,  will  be  enough," 
continued  Lord  Athabasca.  "  Indeed,  far  too  many  to  waste 
upon  this  fellow — pestilent,  ill-conditioned,  treacherous  ras- 
cal that  he  is.  Mr.  Carvel,  our  excellent  superintendent, 
when  he  first  came  at  the  beginning  of  our  reformatory 
work,  found  us,  to  put  it  plainly,  in  something  of  a  hole. 
My  own  resources  were  for  the  moment  locked  up.  My 
son  had  spent — all  that  was  his  to  spend.  We  had  the  op- 
tion of  one  week  to  purchase  a  large  piece  of  land  for  our 
present  workshops.  At  that  time,  anxious  enough  for  all 
who  were  then  on  the  committee  of  immediate  direction, 
Mr.  Carvel  came  nobly  to  our  aid.  He  became  the  creditor 
of  the  institution  to  the  extent  of  several  thousand  pounds. 
He  insisted,  solely  out  of  his  natural  delicacy,  that  the  mat- 
ter should  be  kept  secret.      '  How  can  the  directors   deal 

253 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

properly  with  me  for  my  sins  if  such  a  thing  were  to  come 
out?  '  he  said.  Well,  gentlemen,  it  did  not  come  out.  But 
a  further  gift  of — my  son — Mr.  Hearne  Mackenzie,  upon 
his  coming  of  age,  and  the  continued  prosperity  of  the  institu- 
tion, put  it  in  our  power  to  pay  off  our  generous  creditors, 
first  of  whom  was  Mr.  Superintendent  Carvel,  who  had 
sold  house  property  in  Newcastle  in  order  to  oblige  us  in 
our  time  of  need.  This  money,  a  very  considerable  sum, 
had  just  been  paid  over,  and  was  lodged  in  the  bank  pending 
reinvestment,  when  Mr.  Carvel,  thinking  no  evil,  confided 
his  bank  pass  book  to  this  sneaking  hound — wha-a-at ?  " 

One  and  all  the  directors  were  on  their  feet,  crowding 
round  Carvel  and  insisting  on  shaking  him  by  the  hand.  The 
tall  man  seemed  a  little  scandalized  at  the  proceedings,  but 
finally  shook  hands,  as  it  were,  under  protest.  Then  he  sat 
down,  and  once  more  regarded  the  toe  of  his  boot. 

"  Ah,  well !  "  said  Lord  Athabasca,  "  I  am  glad  that  no 
more  need  be  said.  Mr.  Secretary,  tell  us  on  what  terms 
we  stand  with  this  fellow — Grainer,  the  schoolmaster,  I 
mean." 

"  A  month's  notice,  but  with  liberty  to  dismiss  for  bad 
behavior,"  said  the  secretary. 

"  Dismiss — dismiss!  "  cried  half  a  dozen  voices.  Then 
Carvel  rose  hastily,  stirred  to  speech  at  last. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  he  has  an  old  father  whose 
heart  would  be  broken  if  you  did  this  hastily.  I  know  him. 
Let  the  man  send  in  his  resignation — to  me.  Tell  him  to 
clear  out  in  a  week's  time.  He  is  a  good  teacher,  but  an 
overstrict  disciplinarian — thrashes  the  boys  too  much,  you 
know — for  an  institution  of  this  kind.  You  can  put  it  in 
the  minutes  as  that.  Then,  at  least,  he  will  have  a  chance 
for  his  life." 

And  those  who  were  nearest  Carvel  assert  to  this  day 
254- 


PLOT    THE    SECOND 

that  they  heard  him  mutter  "  Poor  devil  "  under  his  breath 
as  he  sat  down. 

At  any  rate,  it  would  have  been  just  like  Carvel  if  he 
had. 

Giant  Pagan  was  summoned. 

"Bid  Schoolmaster  Grainer  to  come  this  way!"  said 
Lord  Athabasca. 

Sergeant  Pagan  marched  along  the  echoing  corridor, 
tramped  down  the  steps,  and  crossed  the  exercising  yard  as 
if  on  parade.  Then  he  came  on  a  different  man  from  the 
one  he  had  left.  Waxen  yellow  was  Grainer's  face.  His 
mouth,  once  so  cruel,  twitched  at  intervals.  There  was  a 
frightened,  furtive  look  in  his  pale  eyes,  which  had  taken  on 
a  red  watery  rim  all  about  them  as  if  the  man  had  been 
weeping. 

"The  craitur!  "  scorned  Sergeant  Pagan.  "An'  I 
thocht  he  was  a  man !  " 

He  motioned  his  prisoner  to  follow  him,  and  marched 
back  to  the  board  room. 

Lord  Athabasca  was  standing  up  in  his  place  at  the  table 
head,  the  other  directors  looking  curiously  at  him.  Only 
Carvel  sat  sorrowfully  apart  with  bowed  head. 

"  All  right,"  thought  Schoolmaster  Simeon ;  "  I  have 
pulled  it  off  again." 

"  Mr.  Grainer,"  said  Lord  Athabasca,  "  I  will  not  dwell 
on  your  shameful  wickedness;  I  will  only — what  may  touch 
you  more — point  out  what  a  fool  you  have  been.  The 
money  which  you  saw  credited  to  Mr.  Carvel  in  his  pass 
book  had  been  loaned  to  the  reformatory  for  many  years. 
Mr.  Carvel  had  sold  property  to  establish  this  institution, 
in  which  from  the  first  he  has  been  no  hireling.  At  long 
and  last,  we  were  able  to  repay  him.  He  had  refused  inter- 
est, so  that  there  was  restored  to  him  only  the  net  sum  we 

255 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

borrowed.  Do  you  understand  that  clearly?  Speak  out,  if 
you  do  not !  " 

There  was  a  thick  silence  as  the  waxy,  stricken,  dough- 
faced,  tallowy  man  stood  wavering  before  them  as  if  about 
to  fall  but  did  not  know  to  which  side. 

"  For  these  malicious  lies,  for  your  inexcusable  attitude 
to  your  superior  officer,  you  are  from  this  moment  to  con- 
sider yourself  as  dismissed — dismissed  without  appeal — in 
disgrace !  " 

Lord  Athabasca  let  this  sink  in.     Then  he  added: 

"  But  at  the  request  of  Mr.  Carvel,  and  out  of  pity  for 
your  aged  father,  you  are  to  be  permitted  to  send  in  your 
resignation — to  Mr.  Carvel — within  a  week.  Now,  go,  sir. 
We  never  wish  to  see  your  face  again !  " 

The  man  stood  moving  his  lips  without  achieving  speech. 
He  fought  chokingly  with  his  words.  But  all  that  could 
be  made  out  was  only  a  stray  syllable  here  and  there,  which 
came  forth  as  it  were  foam  flecked  with  the  curses  of  bitter 
hate. 

"Carvel — Carvel — hounds — devils!"   he  spluttered. 

Lord  Athabasca  rapped  smartly  with  his  gavel  three 
times.  It  was  the  signal  for  Giant  Pagan,  late  of  the  Forty- 
second  Regiment — a  useful  man. 

The  door  opened,  and  the  tall,  grim,  clear-eyed  man 
stood  within,  almost  filling  it  up  from  post  to  post. 

"See  that  man  safe  to  the  schoolmaster's  house!"  said 
Lord  Athabasca. 

"Come!"  said  the  sergeant,  his  iron  hand  upon  the 
quivering  arm,  which  appeared  for  a  moment  on  the  point 
of  resistance. 

One  turn,  curiously  spinning  in  its  character,  owing  to 
a  "  rick  "  given  to  the  bone — only  to  be  learned  when  on 
Saturday  night  picket  duty  in  Giant  Pope's  old  regiment — 

256 


PLOT    THE    SECOND 

then  a  steady  progression  to  the  door,  singularly  swift,  when 
you  saw  it  sideways,  and  the  schoolmaster  found  himself  out- 
side. Then  all  the  wild  beast  in  him,  prisoned  till  that  mo- 
ment, broke  bounds.  He  bent  his  head  swifter  than  the  eye 
could  follow  its  movements  and  bit  Giant  Pagan  sharply  in 
the  wrist.  The  "  clout  "  which  he  received  the  next  mo- 
ment on  the  side  of  his  head  would  certainly  have  floored 
Mr.  Simeon  Grainer  had  he  not  been  firmed  up  on  the  other 
side  by  another  "  clout  "  equally  solid.  Thus  alternately 
supported,  and  very  "  muzzy  "  as  to  details,  he  reached  his 
own  house.  The  ex-sergeant  opened  the  door  and  flung 
him  in. 

"  If  you  come  out  without  bein'  told,"  he  said,  "  I'll 
break  your  neck!  " 

And  from  the  then  condition  of  his  head,  Schoolmaster 
Simeon  Grainer  believed  him  as  to  his  neck. 

You  may  learn  many  things  in  the  "  Forty-twa,"  by 
the  time  you  come  to  be  a  full  sergeant,  twice  medaled, 
with  the  largest  attainable  pension.  For  one,  you  know 
Simeon  Grainers  at  sight,  and  you  also  learn  how  to  handle 
them  as  they  deserve. 

Giant  Pagan  washed  his  hand  at  the  pump  and  went 
into  the  little  hospital,  where,  consulting  a  book  about  first 
remedies,  he  put  on  some  ointment  recommended  in  cases  of 
bites  of  mad  dogs.  He  passed  the  paragraph  about  cauter- 
izing the  wound. 

"  He's  not  worth  it,  him — the  cur!  "  he  said,  as  he  went 
back  to  his  sentry-go  in  front  of  the  board-room  door. 


257 


CHAPTER    XIX 

PLOT  THE  THIRD AND  LAST 

ET  "  mad  dog  "  was  no  bad  description  of  the 
condition  of  Simeon  Grainer  as  he  sat  down 
to  send  in  his  resignation  of  the  post  he  had 
so  long  held  at  the  "  Peat "  Reformatory. 
Pleasures  the  most  savory  instantly  grew 
tasteless  to  him.  He  could  not  even  properly  cane  the  boys, 
who  by  their  misdeeds  offered  themselves  for  that  exercise 
— once  so  dear  to  the  spirit  of  Simeon  Grainer  that  he  used 
to  think  of  it  the  first  thing  in  the  morning  as  other  men 
do  of  their  sweethearts. 

The  first  plot,  the  deceitful  one,  had  succeeded  beyond 
his  thought.  The  second,  the  dangerous  one,  had  brought 
him  to  most  utter  shipwreck.  But  his  heart  was  not  hu- 
miliated. He  was  all  the  more  bitterly  set  on  revenge. 
There  was  nothing  now  at  which  he  would  stop  to  be  even 
with  Carvel  and  with  the  directors. 

Duffus  arose  in  his  mind.  And  he  went  out  forthwith 
to  hang  up  the  key — his  master  key  which  would  soon 
be  no  longer  his — in  the  place  designated,  upon  a  nail  in 
the  outer  door  of  his  small,  red  brick  house  with  the  tiny 
patch  of  garden  in  front.  As  he  came  out  of  his  sitting  room, 
where  he  had  been  writing  in  the  warm  yellowish  glow  of  the 
paraffin  lamp,  it  seemed  that  he  felt  in  his  face  a  waft  of 

258 


PLOT    THE    THIRD 

keen  moorland  air.  It  struck  him  that  he  had  left  the  door 
open,  yet,  on  going  forward,  he  found  it  shut  as  usual. 
But  the  neighborhood  of  something  mysterious  told  on  his 
nerves,  already  jarred  by  the  events  of  the  afternoon  and  the 
heavy  hand  of  ex-Sergeant  Giant  Pagan,  of  the  "  Forty- 
twa."  He  turned  the  door  key  in  the  lock,  and  hung  up  the 
master  key  on  its  nail  by  the  hat  pegs,  as  he  had  arranged 
with  Duffus.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  had  the  curiosity 
to  take  the  lamp  in  his  hand  and  go  again  to  the  hat  pegs. 
The  key  was  not  there,  but  the  outer  door  was  locked  as 
before. 

The  schoolmaster  returned  to  his  place,  wondering,  but 
not  for  long.  The  smashing  of  all  his  hopes — the  lost 
chance  of  the  superintendentship,  which  had  seemed  almost 
within  his  grasp — even  the  little  self-contained  house  across 
the  road,  in  which  Hearne  Mackenzie  had  dwelt,  which 
had  really  been  his — or  as  good — these  things  filled  his 
mind,  so  that  he  did  not  hear  the  stealthy  movements  which 
went  on  most  of  the  night  about  and  within  his  dwelling. 

In  the  morning  the  key  was  back  in  its  place,  and  the 
plot  desperate,  that  of  Duffus  of  the  red  tie,  well  under  way. 

Now  it  has  so  happened  that  for  some  time  "  Blind 
Jacob's,"  the  Cowgate,  Mr.  Missionary  Molesay,  even  Pa- 
tricia, have  had  to  give  place  to  the  concerns  of  the  "  Peat  " 
Reformatory,  as  these  have  been  thrust  on  our  attention  by 
the  sojourn  there  of  McGhie's  Kid ;  yet  all  the  time  these 
neglected  persons,  and  especially  the  professors  of  the  gentle 
art  of  burgling,  have  been  approaching  the  path  of  our  story. 
True,  they  have  never  really  ceased  their  activities,  though 
Knifer  Jackson  has  as  yet  failed  to  find  a  boy  of  the  in- 
telligence and  simplicity  of  the  Kid  or  a  general  assistant  of 
the  caliber  of  Duffus. 

259 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

The  situation  will  be  made  plainer  by  following  a  few 
of  the  doings  of  Duffus.  These  were  curious  in  the  extreme. 
He  had  for  several  nights  occupied  his  spare  time  in  making 
a  collection  of  inflammable  objects — shavings  from  the  work- 
shops, rags,  chips,  torn  wrappings  and  newspapers,  and  es- 
pecially the  thin,  long  shreddings  which  are  used  for  packing 
the  uppers  of  boots  as  they  arrive  at  the  boot  factory. 
These  Duffus  disposed  in  heaps  under  the  floor  of  the  main 
school  building  of  the  "  Peat  "  Reformatory.  It  was  easy 
for  him  to  start  a  plank  in  the  floor  and  nail  it  down 
again.  These  artful  arrangements  he  saturated  thoroughly 
with  paraffin,  dripping,  varnish,  resin,  and  colza  oil,  ac- 
cording as  he  could  lay  hands  on  inflammable  materials 
without  attracting  attention.  Some  sporting  powder,  which 
Mr.  Hearne  had  left  behind  him  in  his  house,  served  to  lay 
the  trains  upon  a  ground  prepared  with  torn  tissue  paper 
soaked  in  petroleum. 

At  nine  of  the  evening  of  Friday  all  was  ready.  Letters 
had  been  passed  to  and  fro  between  the  heads  of  "  Blind 
Jacob's "  and  Duffus  of  the  red  tie.  There  was  a  big 
"  job  "  on  for  that  Friday  night.  In  evil  as  in  good,  one 
hand  serves  to  wash  the  other.  The  escape  of  No.  680  would 
certainly  clear  the  way  for  the  larger  work  of  Corn  Beef 
Jo  and  the  Knifer.  There  could  be  no  abler  recruit  than 
Master  Duffus  in  any  department  of  professional  work. 

Mysterious  notes  arranging  all  this  had  been  carried 
to  the  little  town  by  the  "  pony  boy,"  who  had  delivered 
them  into  the  hands  of  a  shawled  woman — no  other  than 
the  Kid's  mother — who,  however,  never  once  asked  after 
her  son.  The  mother  may,  indeed,  forget  the  child.  Mad 
Mag  had  lost  all  interest  in  her  son  from  the  moment  he 
had  espoused  his  father's  side  in  an  early  quarrel.  The 
Knifer  had,  indeed,  quite  another  hold  over  Mag.     In  him 

260 


PLOT    THE    THIRD 

she  had,  for  the  first  time,  met  her  master,  but  even  he 
could  not  make  her  love  her  son. 

On  Friday  Duffus  worked  all  day  in  the  shops.  He 
answered  to  his  number  at  roll  call.  He  was  in  his  place 
when  the  evening  porridge  was  served  out.  He  had  been 
seen  in  his  dormitory,  which  was  not  that  in  which  the  Kid 
slept.  Nothing  of  the  abnormal,  nothing  at  all  remarkable! 
Duffus  knew  how  to  be  a  model  reformatory  boy,  just  as, 
when  it  came  to  prison,  he  would  become  at  once  a  model 
prisoner,  and  depart  the  spoiled  darling  of  the  chaplains. 

But,  though  no  one  saw  him  leave  the  dormitory — save, 
it  may  be,  one  of  two  "  chaps  in  the  know  " — Duffus  had 
been  downstairs  more  than  once  before  eleven  o'clock 
struck  from  the  stable's  clock  of  Castle  Egham. 

Now  Warder  Pagan  was  responsible  for  No.  3  dormitory 
— Duffus's  room — and  though  faithful  in  many  things,  the 
ex-sergeant  had  one  fault.  He  loved  to  look  upon  the 
whisky  when  it  gave  its  color  aright — fine,  pale  straw  yellow 
was  his  preference- — in  the  tall  tumblers.  Being  an  Ar- 
gyllshire man,  he  swore  by  "  Long  John,"  and  sometimes  on 
his  return  from  the  Kingside  Inn,  when  pay  night  was  not 
yet  too  distant,  his  head  seemed  so  completely  in  the  clouds, 
that  it  appeared  to  him  that  he  must  be  the  original  "  Long 
John "  himself  striding  down  the  mountains  toward 
Fort  William  over  the  famous  succession  of  "  aughteen 
faals!  " 

On  these  occasions  his  inspection  of  Dormitory  No.  3 
was  very  cursory  indeed,  and  a  bundle  of  clothes  with  the 
coverlet  pulled  high  about  them  might  very  safely  repre- 
sent the  absent  Duffus. 

Yet  Warder  Pagan  had  passed  within  two  yards  of 
Duffus  as  he  entered  the  yard,  stamping  with  his  feet  to 
show  how  firmly  he  stood  on   his  pins,   and  whistling  as 

261 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

he  regarded  the  stars.     He  fumbled  a  little  with  his  pass 
key,  and  hummed: 

"  Honest  auld  Symon  Brodie, 
Stupit  auld  doitit  bodie! 
I'll  awa  to  the  North  Countrie, 
To  see  auld  Symon  Brodie! " 

"Dear  me,"  he  said,  "what's  that?" 

He  broke  his  song  off  short.  It  seemed  as  if  a  shadow 
had  fled  from  beneath  his  left  armpit  out  into  the  darkness. 
With  the  beautiful  logic  of  those  who  have  partaken  of  the 
barley  brew,  he  struck  a  match  and  looked  well  about  him 
— of  course  thus  being  unable  to  see  three  yards.  Then  he 
resumed  the  humming  where  he  had  left  it  off: 

"  Symon  Brodie  had  a  coo, 

The  coo  was  lost;  he  couldna  find  her: 
When  he  had  dune  what  man  could  do, 

The  coo  cam'  name — her  tail  behind  her!  " 

All  was  right  in  the  Dormitory  No.  3.  The  lamp 
was  burning  and  the  boys  asleep,  only  silence  and  the  heavy 
hush  of  breathing  down  the  long  double  row  of  beds. 
Warder  Pagan  regarded  his  own  bed  with  suspicion.  It 
seemed  to  him  the  only  thing  not  behaving  as  it  ought. 
It  would  persist  in  running  round  the  room.  Three  times 
he  tried  to  take  it,  as  it  were,  on  the  fly.  Three  times  he 
came  heavily  to  grass  on  the  carpetless  floor.  Then  Warder 
Pagan  said  to  himself,  shaking  his  head  wisely,  "  This  will 
never  do,  sergeant!  Where  are  your  tactics?  And  you  a 
prop  o'  the  '  Forty-twa  ' !  " 

And  so  waiting  in  the  full  track  of  the  revolving  couch, 
262 


PLOT    THE    THIRD 

he  intercepted  it  successfully  at  last,  held  a  moment  by  the 
round  brass  knob,  and  then  threw  himself  fully  dressed 
upon  it.  He  laughed  low  to  himself,  admiring  his  own 
cleverness. 

"  It  takes  a  '  non-com  '  of  ten  years'  standing  to  do  a 
thing  like  that!"  he  said.  "Thought  it  would  get  away 
from  me,  didn't  it?    Na,  na,  I  was  in  the  Black  Watch!  " 

And  he  firmly  refused  to  give  this  erratic  bedstead  an- 
other chance.  Take  off  his  clothes?  Well,  he  knew  a  trick 
worth  two  of  that.  Why,  as  like  as  not  it  would  be  off 
again.  So  he  decided  to  go  to  sleep  fully  dressed  as  he 
was  rather  than  run  any  foolish  risks.  And,  indeed,  it  was 
as  well  for  No.  3  Dormitory  and  for  the  inhabitants  of  the 
"  Hearne  Mackenzie  "  Reformatory  that  he  did  so,  as,  in 
time,  we  shall  see. 

Having  returned  from  another  day  of  fruitless  research 
after  the  missing  Patricia,  concerning  whom  he  had  been 
unable  to  extract  any  further  information  from  Baby  Lant, 
Hearne  Mackenzie  fell  asleep  in  the  gable  room  of  the 
bare  two-storied  house  which  was  the  Kingside  Inn. 

The  larger  Scottish  hostelries  in  market  towns  are  mostly 
marvels  of  discomfort — crowded  and  odorous  with  dripping 
waterproofs  and  stertorous  drovers  one  day  in  the  seven, 
silent  and  inhospitable  as  the  grave  for  the  rest  of  the 
week — as  has  been  sung  by  the  admirable  poet  concerning 
a  Welsh  house  of  public  entertainment,  so  be  it  recorded 
of  them: 

Whenever  you  go  to  Dolgelly 

Don't  stop  at  the  "  Anchor  "  Hotel  ! 

They'll  give  you  no  meat  for  your — stomach, 
The  waiter  won't  answer  the  bell  ! 
263 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

So  of  the  larger — of  all,  indeed,  save  the  few  best.  But 
the  smaller  inns  are  often  run  upon  quite  a  different  scale 
of  comfort.  It  all  depends  upon  the  landlady,  and  still 
more  (if  she  has  any)  upon  the  landlady's  daughters.  This 
fact,  and  several  others  that  were  pleasant  and  grate- 
ful to  a  home-coming,  weary,  wet,  and  tired  man,  Hearne 
Mackenzie  experienced  at  the  Kingside  Inn.  That  he 
was  in  love  with  Pat  did  not  hinder  him  from  receiving  a 
vague  but  real  pleasure  from  the  observed  fact  that  the 
(returned)  girls  of  the  house  were  pretty.  Indeed,  to  tell 
the  truth,  the  welcome  he  received  at  that  warm  fireside, 
and  the  chat  which  went  on  about  that  cheerful  ingle  while 
his  supper  was  frizzling  in  the  pan,  more  than  made  up 
to  the  natural  man  in  him  for  the  naked  and  mournful 
solitude  in  the  brick  house  across  the  way  in  which  he  had 
lived  so  long  at  the  "  Peat." 

Being  honest  with  himself,  Hearne  Mackenzie  recognized 
that  for  the  time  being,  and  while  his  money  enabled  him  to 
continue  his  search  for  Patricia,  the  Kingside  Inn  was  the 
best  home  he  could  have. 

So  on  the  night  of  Friday  he  had  gone  to  bed  early. 
Wet  from  head  to  foot,  he  had  come  home,  stumbling 
vaguely  over  the  moss.  His  soaked  garments  being  hung 
to  dry  in  front  of  the  kitchen  fire,  he  had  clad  himself  from 
head  to  foot  in  the  honest  homespun  of  the  late  landlord, 
which  gave  him  the  look  of  a  comfortable  store  farmer 
whose  girth  had  prospered  in  direct  ratio  to  his  bank  ac- 
count. But  the  unaccustomed  tickling  of  the  wincey  shirts, 
the  rough  rig-and-fur  drawers  and  socks,  together  with 
the  warmth  within  and  without  produced  by  the  ham-and- 
egg  tea,  and  the  memory  of  the  evil  night  he  had  left  with- 
out, predisposed  him  to  slumber. 

Hearne  Mackenzie  went  to  bed  early — indeed,  at  nine 
264 


PLOT    THE    THIRD 

o'clock  precisely.  He  stepped  out  of  the  clothes  of  the  late 
landlord  of  the  Ringside  Inn  as  a  small  boy  might  out  of 
a  pair  of  his  father's  sea  boots,  and  in  five  minutes  he  found 
himself  between  the  roughish,  but  clean  and  lavender-smell- 
ing sheets  belonging  to  Mrs.  McWhan. 

He  was  awakened  at  something  like  twenty  minutes 
past  midnight  by  a  faint  scent  in  the  room  which  somehow 
recalled  Canada  to  him.  He  sat  up  and  sniffed.  "  The 
forest  on  fire,"  he  said ;  "  but  it  isn't  the  time  of  the  year 
to  do  much  damage." 

Now  there  was  a  luster  in  Hearne's  room — one  of  those 
tinkling,  fly-freckled,  prismatic,  gigantic  eardrop  sort  of 
ornaments  only  to  be  found  in  old  houses,  ugly  when  clean 
and  impossible  when  dirty.  Though  Hearne's  eyes  closed 
promptly,  something  seemed  to  move  to  and  fro  before  his 
vision  like  those  fire  shapes  which  one  can  make  of  different 
colors  by  tightening  or  relaxing  the  lids  after  looking  at 
anything  bright.  Hearne  amused  himself  with  this  for 
some  time. 

But  a  continuance  of  the  multicolored  quiverings  present- 
ly informed  him  that  he  was  receiving  other  and  newer 
impressions  from  somewhere  or  other.  He  glanced  at  the 
luster,  which  hung  a  mysterious  pearl-gray  shape  over  his 
head,  sucking  up  the  starlight  that  filtered  through  the 
uncurtained  windows  of  his  room.  It  was  all  starred  with 
little  darting  flecks  of  orange  and   crimson. 

Hearne  rubbed  his  eyes.  He  was,  he  thought,  the  victim 
of  a  color  delusion.  He  had  often  suffered  from  them  after 
working  too  long  over  the  reformatory  books,  or  getting 
up  for  an  examination  at  college  some  subject  in  which  he 
was  tremendously  interested.  Black  cats  in  corners,  seen 
over  the  shoulder,  which  vanished  slowly  as  you  went  toward 
them — little  zigzag  lightnings  in  the  eyes  which  caused 
18  265 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

the  print  on  a  page  to  melt  and  run  together  as  if  suddenly 
"  pied  " — he  knew  the  proper  medical  formula  for  that — 
rest,  open  air,  and  the  exhibition  of  a  certain  simple  domestic 
medicine. 

But  these  little  darting  flames  and  flashing  signals  aloft 
in  the  luster  could  not  be  thus  interpreted.  Hearne  Mac- 
kenzie sprang  out  of  bed.  He  looked  through  the  little 
gable  window  of  Kingside  Inn,  and,  lo!  the  "Peat"  Re- 
formatory, the  pride  of  his  heart,  was  going  up  to  the  heavens 
in  sheet  on  sheet  of  pale  yellowish  flame! 

Duffus  of  the  red  tie  had  made  no  miscalculation. 

With  what  rapidity,  with  what  haste  of  adjustment 
Hearne  Mackenzie  got  into  his — that  is,  the  landlord's — 
clothes  he  was  never  able  afterwards  to  recall.  He  saw 
his  life  work  passing  away  in  a  flame.  He  seemed  to  hear 
the  cry  of  human  souls  in  agony  going  up  like  so  many 
mounting   sparks. 

He  swung  himself  down  from  his  low  first-floor  win- 
dow. The  rest  of  the  Kingside  Inn  was  wrapped  in  deep 
sleep,  but  he  did  not  wait  for  that.  Hearne  Mackenzie  was 
on  the  point  of  rushing  off  in  the  direction  of  the  reforma- 
tory, which  blazed  like  a  torch  across  the  moor.  But  a 
wiser  thought  arrested  him.     Also  he  observed  something. 

He  could  see  hordes  of  small,  antlike  figures  rushing 
this  way  and  that  about  the  houses  and  out  of  the  yard. 
The  alarm  had  been  given.  It  was  the  detached  and  un- 
inhabited schoolrooms  and  the  old  dining  rooms  which  were 
in  flames.  The  fire  had  not  yet  caught  the  dormitories, 
the  residence  of  Carvel,  the  superintendent,  or  the  "  shops  " 
with  their  valuable  machinery. 

In  brief,  much — most,  indeed,  might  yet  be  saved!  But 
this  much  was  certain :  carrying  water  in  cans  was  of  no  use. 
What   they   wanted   was   a   fire   engine.      He  had   always 

266 


PLOT    THE    THIRD 

thought  of  buying  one  for  the  "  Peat,"  but  an  unblessed 
want  of  funds  had  hitherto  stood  in  the  way.  However, 
there  was  one  at  Three  Ridings,  his  father's  house.  He 
would  go  there.  If  he  found  Hutton,  the  coachman,  and 
one  or  two  gardeners  whom  he  knew  for  reliable  men, 
he  could  get  it  to  the  "  Peat "  in  time  to  save  the  most 
valuable  portions  of  the  institution,  and  those  which  it 
would  take  the  longest  to  replace. 

Without  a  thought  of  the  clothes  he  was  wearing,  he 
hurried  across  the  moor  in  the  direction  of  the  Three 
Ridings.  There  was  a  short  cut.  Hearne  knew  every  step 
of  the  way.  First  there  was  the  black  and  trackless  moss. 
Then  before  him  would  stand  up  a  long  promontory  of  tall 
trees  with  a  patriarch  among  pines  towering  high  in  the 
midst.  That  was  the  landmark.  So  much  the  light  from 
the  burning  school  would  show  him. 

After  that  it  was  plain  sailing.  Cutting  through  the 
green  gloom  of  the  pine  belt,  he  descended  sharply  a  tiny 
pathway  that  curved  and  twisted,  half  overgrown  with 
Solomon's  seal  and  ground  ivy.  In  the  hollow  Hearne 
turned  sharply  at  right  angles  across  a  bridge,  which  some 
early  landscape-gardening  proprietor  of  Three  Ridings  had 
erected  across  the  river.  It  was  high  in  the  middle  but 
too  narrow  for  even  the  swag-bellied  carriages  of  ancient 
times.  The  easy  archaeology  of  the  neighborhood  had  named 
it  "  The  Roman  Bridge,"  though  it  obviously  dated  about 
1740,  or  thereaway. 

At  any  rate,  Hearne  crossed  it  hotfoot  without  heed- 
ing its  date.  Then  he  scaled  the  bank  opposite  so  as  to  come 
out  upon  the  three-cornered  plateau  on  which  stood  Three 
Ridings.  For  whereas  Egham  and  the  "  Peat  "  were  set  out 
baldly  on  the  crown  of  the  moorland,  Three  Ridings  was 
emphatically  down   in   the  valley.     Little  green  dells  sur- 

267 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

rounded  it  on  every  side,  rivers  ran  about  it,  and  birds 
chanted.  The  spring  flowers  came  earliest;  the  autumn 
ones  lingered  longest  about  the  south-looking  dells  and 
sheltered  holms  of  Three  Ridings,  now  the  property  of  the 
rich  Lord  Athabasca,  who  had  paid  a  great  price  to  call  it 
his  own,  and  had  spent  so  much  money  on  it  since. 

But  even  from  Three  Ridings  the  flare  of  the  burning 
"  Peat  "  could  be  seen,  and  as  he  ran,  Hearne  could  hear 
the  distant  calling  of  voices  and  the  crashing  of  underbrush  as 
unseen  men  charged  through  it  in  that  wild  excitement 
"  to  see  a  fire "  which  possesses  all  country  people — the 
panic  which  is  so  incomprehensible  to  the  blase  folk  of 
towns,  who  will  hardly  go  to  the  window  for  a  thing  so 
slight,  and  then  only  in  the  hope  that  by  good  luck  the 
whooping  fire  engines  may  run  over  somebody. 

Up  the  steep  brow,  the  last  part  on  his  hands  and  knees, 
climbed  Hearne,  as  careless  of  ways  and  means  as  if  he  had 
been  in  the  heart  of  the  northern  Sioux  country  where  he 
was  born.  But  he  moved  silently,  as  became  the  son  of  his 
grandfather.  He  went  like  Crowfoot,  that  great  chief, 
not  like  those  other  charging  asses  up  there.  No  one  came 
near  him  as  he  approached  the  great  silent  house.  It  loomed 
up  suddenly  before  him,  massive  and  black.  A  candle  was 
being  carried  from  room  to  room  on  the  second  story.  Some 
frightened  maid,  perhaps,  thought  Hearne,  or  the  butler 
seeing  that  everything  was  locked  up. 

He  skirted  the  pheasant-rearing  shrubbery,  all  marled 
and  patched  with  scars  where  the  hen  mothers  had  made  to 
themselves  dust  baths,  then  through  an  archway  to  the 
stables.    The  door  of  the  engine  house  was  open !     Hurrah ! 

The  alarm  had  been  given,  and  they  had  taken  it  off  at 
once.  Well  done!  There  was  some  hope  for  the  brains  of 
domestic  servants  after  all.     A  livery  did  not  quite  destroy 

268 


PLOT    THE    THIRD 

the  soul,  as  Hearne  had  previously  supposed.  But  the 
candle?  Evidently  there  were  those  in  the  house,  wakeful 
and  perhaps  anxious.  At  least  he  could  ease  his  father's 
anxiety.  He  remembered  with  a  kind  of  pride  and  thank- 
fulness how  deeply  interested  the  old  man  had  always  been  in 
the  "  Hearne  Mackenzie."  Even  at  that  present  moment 
was  he  not  chairman  of  the  board  of  directors?  Hearne 
would  lay  aside  all  angry  feelings,  and,  man  to  man,  as 
indeed  Athabasca  and  his  son  always  treated  with  each  other, 
he  would  tell  his  father  the  hopes  he  had  that  the  better 
portion  of  the  buildings  and,  indeed,  all  that  was  intrinsically 
most  valuable,  all  the  wage-earning  part,  might  yet  be  saved 
— especially  if  the  men  with  the  Three  Ridings'  engine  ar- 
rived in  time. 

The  back  door  was  locked,  which  somewhat  astonished 
him.  He  had  thought  that  of  a  certainty  that  part  of  the 
house  would  be  the  first  astir,  in  order  to  see  strange  things. 
The  wild  flurry  of  the  mounting  flames,  licking  the  few 
visible  stars,  the  distant  but  quite  distinct  crackle  of  the 
burning  timbers,  the  far-carried  smell  of  the  wood  smoke, 
were  all  strongly  in  evidence  in  the  rear  of  the  house.  He 
had  expected  half  the  servants  of  Three  Ridings  to  be  con- 
gregated there,  perhaps  using  the  opportunity  to  do  a  little 
private  jesting  and  "  spooning,"  as  on  such  occasions  serv- 
ants are  wont  to  do.  But  to  find  nobody — Hearne  Mac- 
kenzie was  not  prepared  for  that. 

It  was  the  same  at  the  side  door.  Locked  firm  and  fast  it 
was — silence  all  about,  save  for  that  far-off  warning  crackle 
up  on  the  moor. 

"  Have  they  gone  off  in  a  body?  "  said  Hearne  to  him- 
self— "  my  father  at  the  head  of  them?  That  is  it.  I  would 
not  put  it  past  him,  even  at  his  time  of  life.  What  an  old 
Nor'wester  he  is!  " 

269 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

And  a  something  of  pride  swelled  in  his  heart. 

He  went  to  the  front  door  and  mounted  the  steps.  The 
fire  was  not  visible  from  there,  but  the  odor  of  burning 
came  clearly  to  his  nostrils.  He  laid  his  hand  on  the  great 
oaken  door,  ready  to  knock  with  the  immense  brazen 
knocker  which  his  father  had  brought  long  ago  from  Venice. 
It  was  a  clever  imitation,  and  Lord  Athabasca  had  paid 
for  it  as  being  the  original  and  authentic  knocker  of  the 
prison  of  the  Doges.  Nobody  had  dared  to  enlighten  him 
since. 

But  Hearne  Mackenzie's  hand  did  not  reach  the  knocker. 
The  door  moved  inward!  It  had  not  been  closed  at  all! 
What  abominable  carelessness!  He  would  have  them  all  out 
of  the  house  to-morrow.  They  were  getting  too  fat,  like 
that  fellow  in  the  Bible — Jeshurun,  wasn't  it?  But  he, 
Hearne  Mackenzie,  would  do  the  kicking!  He  would  not 
have  his  father  imposed  upon  by  a  pack  of  lazy  good  for 
nothings. 

He  pushed  the  door  open  and  found  himself  in  the  great 
silent  hall  hung  with  trophies  of  the  chase — mostly  taken 
over  from  the  previous  occupant.  A  few  were  his  own,  and, 
being  fond  of  them,  he  could  have  put  his  hand  on  them  in 
the  dark.  The  head  of  a  buck  moose,  the  mask  of  a  wood 
bison,  and,  finest  and  most  difficult  of  all  to  obtain,  the 
whole  upper  part  of  a  musk  ox,  standing  out  of  a  wooden 
panel,  painted  with  brown  gray  and  marish  green  to  re- 
semble the  Barren  Ground  plants  on  which  he  had  found 
it  feeding. 

But  in  the  house  nothing — no  one — no  sound.  Hearne 
laughed  silently.  He  might  have  been  a  burglar  in  his  own 
father's  house.  But  that  candle?  He  must  find  out  who 
that  was.  So  he  mounted  the  deeply  carpeted  stairs  three 
at  a  time  till  he  came  to  his  father's  sitting  room.     Ha — 

270 


PLOT    THE    THIRD 

at  last — there  was  a  light  in  there!  The  candle  must  have 
been  carried  by  Lord  Athabasca,  who  was  himself  looking 
to  the  defenses  in  the  absence  of  the  servants,  doubtless  all 
dispatched  to  see  the  burning  "  Peat  " !  And  now — he 
would  warn  his  father  with  their  old  hunting  call — the  call 
of  the  Sioux  on  the  night  trail. 

The  sound  of  his  voice  echoed  weirdly  through  the 
silent  house!  Strange  that  his  father  did  not  answer!  He 
must  have  fallen  asleep  in  his  chair,  no  unfrequent  thing. 
He  always  had  a  burnt  hole  or  two  on  the  breast  of  his 
smoking  jacket,  where  the  red  ends  of  his  cigarettes  had 
alighted. 

"  Father,  it  is  I — Hearne!     Can  I  come  in?  " 

There  was  no  stir  in  the  room  or  in  the  house,  aloft  or 
alow.  Behind  the  closed  blinds  of  the  staircase  window  he 
could  see  the  dancing  of  the  flames  aloft  on  the  table-land. 
Hearne  pushed  the  door  open.  A  student's  lamp  with  a 
green  shade  was  arranged  for  quiet  reading.  His  father  sat 
quietly  in  the  great  chair  with  a  book  on  his  knees. 

But  he  was  dead — a  knife  in  his  throat. 


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CHAPTER    XX 


PARRICIDE 


T  the  Ravensnuik  police  office  the  honest  in- 
spector heavily  and  conscientiously  cautioned 
Hearne  that  whatever  he  might  say  would 
be  used  against  him. 

It  was  the  first  lightning  flash  of  insight 
into  the  possibilities  of  his  position.  He  had  run  all  the 
way  from  the  Three  Ridings  to  the  police  station.  The 
"  Peat  " — twenty  "  Peats  "  might  burn  for  him  now.  He 
found  the  inspector,  a  massive,  silent  man  with  a  wooden 
manner,  sitting  solitary  over  a  ledger.  The  Bible,  the  "  Con- 
fession of  Faith,"  and  the  "  History  of  the  Clan  McKay  " 
occupied  a  shelf  along  with  a  volume  of  pasted  police-court 
cuttings,  a  tin  of  tobacco,  and  two  pairs  of  handcuffs. 

"  It's  certainly  primus  fashious,"  said  Inspector  McKay, 
when  Hearne  had  finished.  "  I  am  sorry,  sir,  but  my  ob- 
vious duty  is  to  detain  you — as  accessory  if  not  principal  in 
your  father's  murder.  I  don't  say  you're  guilty,  sir.  In- 
deed, I  believe  not.  I've  seen  a  heap  o'  good  that  you've 
done  up  there  at  the  old  '  Peat,'  and  I  never  heard  a  word 
again  ye!  It's  not  what  /  think,  but  what  others  would 
think  if  ye  was  to  run  away  from  inquiry!  I'm  with  you, 
sir,  and  it'll  not  be  my  fault  if  I  can't  lay  my  hand  on  the 
guilty  parties,  and  have  you  discharged  without  a  stain,  as 

272 


PARRICIDE 

the  Good  Book  says!  But  in  the  meantime  ye  shall  have 
my  own  spare  room.  But — you  will  excuse  me  if  I  turn 
the  key  in  the  lock." 

The  quiet,  dusky-skinned  grandson  of  the  great  chief 
Crowfoot  said  no  word.  He  only  nodded,  and  told  Mr. 
Inspector  McKay  that  he  would  have  done  the  same  in  his 
place.  Then  he  marched  calmly  to  the  "  spare  room," 
which  had  bars  to  the  window  and  a  special  lock  and  bolt 
to  the  door  outside,  but  inside  was  comfortable  enough. 

Not  that  that  made  much  difference  to  Hearne  Mac- 
kenzie, who  sat  till  break  of  day  on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  The 
inspector,  coming  in  sharply  at  eight,  found  him  thus  in 
the  clear  light  of  the  morning. 

"  If  I  were  you,  sir,  I  would  wash  my  face  and  hands 
— but  first,  come  here,  Graham.  I  must  warn  you,  sir,  that 
it  is  my  duty  to  enter  on  the  books  of  the  station  the  con- 
dition in  which  you  entered  it,  as  to  your  person.  You  have 
blood  on  your  hands  and  face.  Your  hands  are  torn,  and 
your  clothes  are  another  man's — of  which  I  make  no  doubt 
whatever  but  that  you  can  give  a  sufficient  explanation. 
Still,  it  is  my  duty  to  constitute  an  exact  account  of  all 
relevant  circumstances  on  the  offeeshial  books  of  the  station. 
Also  it  is  Officer  Graham's  duty  to  sign  as  a  witness  the 
deposition  of  his  superior  officer.  And  with  these  few  re- 
marks "  (concluded  the  inspector,  who  had  Highland  preach- 
ing blood  in  him),  "  I  will  leave  you  to  the  enjoyment  of 
your  breakfast." 

How  Hearne  enjoyed  his  breakfast  in  these  circum- 
stances may  be  imagined. 

But  at  that  moment  a  little  party  of  two  was  speeding 
toward  Ravensnuik  with  that  in  their  hearts  which  was 
calculated  to  cause  Hearne  Mackenzie  to  enjoy  his  next  meal 
better. 

273 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

"  Inspector  McKay?  " 

"  That  is  my  name!  " 

The  big,  square-built  man  filled  up  the  doorway  as 
determinedly  as  if  he  had  been  part  of  the  build- 
ing itself.  None  should  pass  that  way  without  his  per- 
mission. 

"  I  am  Archbold  Molesay,  the  police  missionary  from  the 
city,  and  I  come  with  this  young  lady  to  see  Mr.  Hearne 
Mackenzie !  " 

"  It  is  quite  impossible,"  quoth  the  dour  inspector,  hold- 
ing himself  officially  rigid. 

"  I  think  not  quite,"  insinuated  Archbold  Molesay 
gently,  like  a  sunbeam  asking  permission  to  enter  the  window 
of  a  guarded  castle ;  "  here  is  a  line  or  two  from  Captain 
Henderland  to  your  address." 

The  countenance  of  Inspector  McKay  changed. 

"You  know  him?"  inquired  Archbold  Molesay,  look- 
ing up. 

"  Know  him !  "  the  cry  burst  involuntarily  from  the 
bushy  beard  of  the  country  officer  with  a  kind  of  break  of 
admiration  in  his  voice.  Does  a  color  sergeant  know  the 
commander  in  chief?  Does  a  month-old  curate,  still  wear- 
ing with  pride  his  first  M.B.  waistcoat,  know  the  arch- 
bishop of  his  diocese?  Of  course  Inspector  McKay,  of  the 
country  force,  knew  the  great  Captain  Henderland,  who  had 
been  head  of  the  metropolitan  police  when  he  was  a  little 
shaver  scudding  in  scanty  kilts  over  a  Highland  croft. 
Know  him?    Yes,  indeed! 

After  this  he  ushered  them  in  at  once,  Mr.  Molesay  and 
— Patricia. 

This  was  the  paragraph  which  had  brought  them  so 
far  and  so  fast.  It  was  a  triumph  of  local  reporting,  ruth- 
lessly cut  down  by  an  unsympathetic  night  editor,  who  had 

274 


PARRICIDE 

some  feeling  left  for  the  severities  of  style,  in  spite  of  twenty 
years  of  newspaper  work: 

"  SUPPOSED  PARRICIDE  MURDER.1  A  pain- 
ful sensation  has  been  caused  by  the  discovery,  at  the 
very  moment  when  the  '  Hearne  Mackenzie '  Reforma- 
tory w7as  in  danger  of  destruction  by  fire,  of  the  death 
by  violence  of  its  chairman  of  directors,  the  Right  Hon. 
Lord  Athabasca.  The  name  of  Lord  Athabasca  is  well 
known  to  all.  His  career  in  the  colonies  was  distin- 
guished in  the  extreme,  yet  he  seems  to  have  met  his 
death  by  the  cruel  hands  of  a  willful  murderer.  The 
alarm  was  given  by  the  son  of  the  murdered  man  [who  had 
been  for  some  time  lurking  in  the  neighborhood,  and  who 
was  discovered  in  disguise  in  the  castle  of  Three  Ridings, 
the  residence  of  Lord  Athabasca,  with  whom  he  had 
quarreled].  A  suspected  person  is  at  present  in  custody. 
The  capture  was  made  at  once  through  the  zeal  and  de- 
termination of  Inspector  Sergeant  McKay  [who,  during 
his  stay  in  Ravensnuik,  has  shown  himself  such  an  ac- 
tive officer  and  has  so  much  endeared  himself  to  rate- 
payers and  property  holders  by  his  watchful  diligence]. 
Inspector  McKay  deserves  the  highest  credit  for  his  capture 
of  the  daring  assailant  [who,  strange  to  say,  is  no  other 
than  the  only  son  of  the  murdered  man]." 

This,  without  the  brackets,  was  the  way  the  local  re- 
porter wrote  it.  Omitting  the  bracketed  parts,  the  slightly 
shortened  version  reveals  the  ideas  of  the  night  editor  of  The 
Thistle  newspaper  upon  the  law  of  libel,  and  on  what  really 
constitutes  "  news  "  as  distinguished  from  advertisement. 

xThe   striking    word    "PARRICIDE"   had   been    hastily  deleted    here  with 
a  splash   of  blue  pencil. 

275 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

Having  read  which  Patricia  had  insisted  upon  "  going  at 
once  to  him." 

Mr.  Molesay  mildly  objected,  saying  that  in  any  case 
Hearne  would  be  brought  to  the  city  that  day  for  examina- 
tion, and  without  doubt  interned  in  the  Calton.  It  would 
be  far  easier,  therefore,  to  wait.  But  Pat  instantly  de- 
manded if  Mr.  Molesay  considered  it  a  time  for  waiting. 
As  for  herself  she  would  go  at  once,  and  if  the  gate  of  the 
Ravensnuik  Jericho  did  not  open  before  her,  she  would 
march  round  and  round  it  till  the  walls  fell  down. 

Mr.  Molesay  smiled  gently.  He  knew  all  about  such 
a  temperament.  It  was  what  he  himself  did  with  the  citadel 
of  Satan  in  the  Cowgate.  He  had  been  marching  a  long 
time  about  it  and  about,  yet  the  falling  of  the  walls  seemed 
as  remote  as  ever.  Still,  he  had  made  a  breach  or  two. 
He  smiled,  and  extorting  from  Pat  McGhie  a  promise  that 
she  would  not  start  without  him,  he  went  off  to  see  his 
friend  Captain  Henderland.  The  "  couple  of  lines  "  was 
the  result,  and  the  result  of  the  couple  of  lines  was  that 
wondrously  reverent  look  on  Inspector  McKay's  face,  as  he 
saluted  and  ushered  them  in  as  to  a  presence  chamber. 

"Hearne!"  said  Patricia,  using  a  name  she  had  never 
before  laid  tongue  to. 

Utterly  dazed,  he  stood  up  mechanically.  She  went  di- 
rectly to  him,  and  put  her  arms  about  his  neck. 

"  I  came  at  once,"  she  said  aloud,  and  then  kissed  him. 
which  certainly  she  had  never  even  dreamed  of  doing  to  any 
man. 

Perforce  Mr.  Molesay  remained  where  he  was,  his  bare 
head  gleaming  more  gently  argentine  than  ever,  in  the 
dull  light  of  Inspector  McKay's  "  spare  room."  He  was 
wondering  if  after  all  there  might  not  be  something  better 
in  the  world  than  the  trying  to  save  souls — if  he  had  not, 

276 


PARRICIDE 

indeed,  needlessly  missed  something  in  that  daily  warfare 
of  his  for  "  the  Kingdom  which  is  within  "  every  man. 

Then  he  went  to  the  window  and,  with  an  assumption 
of  extraordinary  interest,  gazed  out  at  the  lonesome  patch 
of  yard,  walled  and  spiked,  where  there  seemed  to  be  a  hap- 
less hen  scratching  between  each  several  blade  of  grass — 
and  yet  there  were  not  many  hens,  either. 

Mr.  Archbold  Molesay  tried  to  shut  his  ears  to  the 
murmuring  behind  him.  It  was  not  for  him,  all  that,  but 
for  younger  men — with  heads  blond  and  brown  and  black — 
not  silvery  and  fine,  with  the  hairs  growing  scanter  and 
scanter  about  the  temples. 

"  Ah,  me!  "  said  Mr.  Molesay. 

Had  he  done  his  duty?  He  had  tried.  He  recalled  the 
inspired  Word  upon  the  subject,  and  tried  to  extract  comfort 
out  of  it.  "  I  commend  unto  you  Phebe  our  sister  ...  re- 
ceive her  in  the  Lord,  as  becometh  saints,  .  .  .  assist  her  in 
whatsoever  business  she  hath  need  of  you."  Yes,  that  was  it. 
Had  he  done  it — he,  Archbold  Molesay,  to  whom  now  the 
very  emptiness  of  his  own  heart  was  a  mockery? 

The  hens  pecked  listlessly  in  their  twenty  feet  square 
of  yard.  One  with  a  little  more  vigor  tried  to  fly.  A  sky 
of  octagonally  wide-meshed  wire  fencing  brought  the  soarer 
down  to  earth  again  with  a  protesting  "  H-r-r-r-r-r-o-o-o-p!  " 

It  was  like  the  sky  above  the  Cowgate.  And  he,  Arch- 
bold Molesay,  was  like  that  checked  but  still  aspiring  bird. 

Love  was  young.  Love  was  warm.  There  was  nothing 
in  the  world  which  made  life — real  life — but  only  that.  And 
he  had  shut  himself  out  of  it.  This  meeting  in  the  prison 
cell  of  two  young  lovers — one  of  them  attainted  by  the  most 
terrible  crime  in  the  world — the  other  coming  direct  and 
swift  to  her  mate,  like  the  homing  dove,  to  speak  words 
which  had  been  unspoken  in  hours  of  good  fortune,  touched 

277 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

him  more  than  the  year-in-and-year-out  domesticity  of  Harry 
Rodgers  and  his  wife.  It  was  more  akin  to  his  heart  some- 
how. There  was  a  wild  wood,  savage  spirit  in  it  which  was 
still  dear  to  him,  though  he  had  passed  his  life  among  roofs 
and  walls,  many  of  which  sheltered  criminals,  ticket-of-leave 
men,  the  scum  of  all  the  rascaldom  of  the  capital. 

A  word  caught  his  ear  over  his  shoulder — ah,  how  much 
against  his  will!  It  was  Patricia's  voice.  But  oh,  how 
changed — soft  as  the  doves  in  the  woods  of  Romano,  where 
in  the  long  summer  afternoons,  a  truant  boy,  named  Arch- 
bold,  had  lain,  strangely  moved,  and  listened  to  them. 

"Beloved,"  said  the  voice.     "Oh,   my  beloved!" 

"  And  what,"  cried  Archbold  Molesay's  heart  resent- 
fully, as  he  watched  the  poor  droopy  caged  fowls  without — 
"  what  is  thy  beloved  more  than  another  beloved,  O  thou 
fairest  among  women  ?  " 

And  then  there  came  back  the  instant  response,  swift  as 
the  glinting  of  the  lightning  from  one  world's  verge  to  the 
other,  "  My  beloved  is  white  and  ruddy,  the  chiefest  among 
ten  thousand.  .  .  .  His  head  .  .  .  bushy,  and  black  as  a 
raven."  Mr.  Molesay's  swift  mind,  trained  in  the  letter  of 
Scripture  from  his  youth  up,  ran  over  all  that  marvelous 
ascription,  ending  with  "  His  mouth  is  most  sweet  ...  he 
is  altogether  lovely.  This  is  my  beloved,  and  this  is  my 
friend,  O  ye  daughters  of  Jerusalem." 

He  murmured  twice,  "  This  is  my  friend,  O  ye  daugh- 
ters of  Jerusalem." 

His  eyes  followed  the  poor  caged  bipeds  scraping  and 
pecking  over  their  eternal  cinder  heap,  and  he  strove  to  give 
to  the  Song  of  Songs  its  conventional  spiritual  meaning — 
that  in  which  he  had  been  instructed  at  college;  but  the 
low  murmur  behind,  in  the  direction  of  which  he  dared 
not  turn,  somehow  gave  the  lie  to  the  conventional  exegesis. 

278 


PARRICIDE 

No,  it  meant  earthly  love.  And  God  permitted  it.  More — 
God  offered  it  to  every  man.  He,  Archbold  Molesay,  had 
missed  it.  He  was  now  an  old  man.  What  a  fool — what  a 
terrible  fool! 

Then,  when  it  was  the  lowest  of  the  tide  with  him, 
came  the  answer,  strong,  sudden,  as  a  wind  fresh  and  salt 
from  the  sea. 

The  Cowgate — that  dim  place  in  which  his  life  was  cast 
— himself  out  at  all  hours,  midnight  and  dawn,  and  in  that 
ghastly  betwixt  and  between  when  he  seemed  to  walk  down 
there  as  in  a  city  of  the  dead — could  he  ask  a  woman  to 
share  that — to  live  there  as  he  lived?  It  was  not  as  if  he 
had  a  congregation,  a  church,  a  manse,  like  Rodgers.  And 
God  knew  it  was  hard  enough,  even  as  it  was,  for  Laura 
Rodgers.  Often  he  had  pitied  her,  and  if  she  had  had 
children — well,  the  position  would  have  been  untenable. 
But  for  him — Archbold  Molesay,  city  missionary,  police 
forlorn  hope — no — it  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  And  indeed 
had  better  not  be. 

What  were  they  saying  now?  He  would  not  listen. 
Yet  he  did.     He  could  not  help  it. 

"  Hearne,"  said  the  voice  he  could  hear — the  other  spoke 
too  low,  too  hoarse,  or  not  at  all;  "  of  course  I  do  not  be- 
lieve a  word  of  it.  That  is  why  I  am  here — why  I  came 
at  once.  They  may  separate  us,  my  beloved,  for  a  while, 
but  you  will  know — you  will  know.  You  are  sure  that  I 
shall  not  forget  for  a  moment." 

Apparently  Hearne  was  sure.  The  silence  and  the  low 
sobbing  said  so  in  a  way  that  little  Mr.  Molesay  understood 
instinctively.  He  winced  and  bowed  his  silver  head  yet 
lower  on  his  bosom.    All  this  was  hard  to  bear. 

"  I  knew — I  knew,"  he  reproached  himself,  "  yet  what 
right  has  he?     I  saved  her.     I  took  her  out  of  the  danger. 

279 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

I  sought  her.  She  was  my  one  ewe  lamb — and  now  for  all 
that  she  cares  nothing — nothing.  She  never  thinks  of  me, 
but  only  of  this  man!  " 

"For  shame,  Archbold  Molesay!"  persisted  the  stiller 
smaller  voice.  "  For  shame!  You  know  better  than  that, 
Archbold  Molesay.  On  that  day  when  the  books  are 
opened,  your  motives  will  read  better  on  the  pages  writ- 
ten by  the  angel  of  the  accounts.  To  you  that  girl  was 
only  an  unhappy  woman — nothing  more.  You  would  have 
done  as  much  for  her  who  lieth  in  wait,  for  her  whose 
house  inclineth  unto  death.  You  did  more,  infinitely  more, 
for  poor,  foolish  Kate  Earsman.  And  now,  like  a  whimper- 
ing fool,  you  cry  out,  just  because  she  has  done  what  you 
always  knew  she  would  do — just  because  you  have  been 
finding  an  excuse  every  day,  as  it  passed  over  your  head, 
to  go  down  to  Rodgers',  to  see  another  man's  sweetheart, 
and  so  forget  your  folk,  your  message,  and  your  God !  " 

Thus  the  voice,  which  now  at  the  last  sounded  louder 
than  Sinai's  thunders,  echoed  from  the  hill  of  Musa  even 
to  Katherina. 

And  after  that  Archbold  Molesay  heard  no  more  the 
young  lovers'  voices.     For  his  mission  had  come  upon  him. 

"  The  kingdom  of  God  is  not  meat  and  drink  "  (neither 
the  love  of  women)  ;  "  but  righteousness,  and  peace,  and  joy 
in  the  Holy  Ghost.  For  only  he  that  in  these  things 
serveth  Christ  is  acceptable  to  God,  and  approved  of  men!  " 

Factum  est  I  It  was  done — through  the  octagonals  of 
the  wired  hencoop,  past  the  dim  smoky  bars  of  his  Cowgate 
prison,  Archbold  Molesay  saw  a  door  opened  in  heaven, 
heard  a  voice  that  said  "Come  up  hither!"  And  lo!  im- 
mediately he  was  in  the  spirit  .  .  .  lifted  into  the  third 
heaven  ...  in  the  body  or  out  of  the  body,  he  could 
not  tell.     Only  this  he  knew,  that  he,  too,  heard  unspeak- 

280 


PARRICIDE 

able  words  which  it  is  not  lawful  for  a  man  to  utter.  And 
after  that  neither  thorn  in  the  flesh,  how  fair  soever  the 
rose  of  love  which  might  have  bloomed  on  that  thorn,  nor 
any  messenger  of  Satan,  had  power  to  buffet  Archbold  Mole- 
say  any  more.  He  had  dreed  his  weird,  trodden  the  desert 
sands,  passed  this  Jordan,  and  now  was  free  of  the  larger 
freedom,  having  proved  his  work,  and,  knowing  himself, 
felt  strong  enough  to  bear  his  own  burden. 

"  And  noo,  the  time's  up,"  said  Inspector  McKay  dryly, 
who  for  some  time  had  been  knocking  at  the  door  all  un- 
heard. "  It  is  my  duty  to  take  my  prisoner  in  to  the  Calton. 
And "  (he  turned  to  Hearne)  "  I  have  to  warn  ye, 
offeeshially,  while  personally  believin'  ye  innocent  o'  the 
crime  chairged,  that  whatever  ye  may  say  will  be  used 
against  ye!  " 


19  281 


CHAPTER  XXI 

CAPTAIN    HENDERLAND,    CHIEF    OF    POLICE 

EANWHILE  in  a  very  matter-of-fact  office 
in  the  High  Street,  amid  a  constant  to  and 
fro  of  footsteps  without,  not  one  of  which 
dared  turn  aside  to  interrupt  his  privacy, 
sat  "  the  chief."  He  was  not  a  tall  man, 
this  Captain  Henderland,  but  many  a  street  bully  and  hulk- 
ing bruiser  went  through  life  with  the  impression  that  he 
was  a  very  Samson  with  the  height  of  a  Saul.  He  had  a 
quiet  manner,  and  a  way  of  stroking  the  top  of  his  head 
as  if  to  keep  the  ideas  from  rising  too  quickly — or,  as  it 
were,  "  swarming  "  away  like  bees  on  a  fine  July  Sabbath 
day  among  the  hives. 

He  was  talking  to  the  procurator  fiscal,  a  gray,  thick-set 
man,  without  particular  physiognomy  save  a  pair  of  boring 
gray  eyes  which  had  the  most  curious  effect  of  rendering 
probable  ill  doers  very  angry.  It  was  different  with  Hen- 
derland. His  manner  to  a  possible  criminal  seemed  to  say, 
"  Here  sits  your  best  friend.  Trust  in  me.  Make  a  clean 
breast  of  it,  and  it  will  be  the  better  for  us  both." 
And,  indeed,  very  often  he  was  perfectly  right. 
So  well  did  the  fiscal  know  his  power  (or  his  weakness) 
that  he  always  charged  Henderland  with  the  private  exam- 
ination or  precognoscing,  while  he  sat  apparently  absorbed 

282 


CAPTAIN    HENDERLAND 

in  taking  notes,  without  once  lifting  his  uncomfortable  gim- 
lets of  eyes. 

Now  the  notes  were  being  compared — as  chief  man  of 
action  eyed  chief  man  of  law. 

"  The  fault  is,"  said  Captain  Henderland,  stooping  to 
pick  up  a  small  piece  of  coal  which  had  fallen  from  the 
grate,  with  the  official  tongs  (apparently  obtained  second 
hand  from  Ashbucket  Moll),  "  the  little  rift  within  the  lute 
is  that  the  whole  thing  is  so  pat.  The  coincidences  are  just 
too  obvious.     It  is  almost  equal  to  a  confession!  " 

"  So  much  the  better  for  us,"  said  the  fiscal — Findlayson 
was  his  name.  "I'm  sorry  for  the  young  fellow,  but  it  will 
be  a  beautiful  case  to  blood  a  fresh  advocate  depute  on.  He 
will  have  it  all  his  own  way  right  from  the  start." 

"  I  am  none  so  sure  of  that,"  said  Captain  Henderland, 
balancing  the  disreputable  tongs  on  one  finger  as  if  about 
to  do  a  conjuring  trick  with  them.  "  No,  from  what  I  have 
been  hearing  from  Molesay — I  am  noways  so  sure  of  that." 

"And  who  the  particular  mischief  is  Molesay?"  said 
the  fiscal,  who,  outside  his  business,  was  distinctly  limited. 

The  chief  of  police  eyed  him  as  if  with  an  official  meas- 
uring  tape.      He    seemed    to   find    Mr.    Procurator    Fiscal 
Findlayson  much  under  the  standard  for  admission  to  the 
force. 

"Not  know  Molesay?"  he  said  wonderingly.  "Why, 
he's  our  police  missionary.  If  we  knew  all  that  Molesay 
knows,  a  good  many  people,  presently  at  large,  would  sleep 
to-night  within  the  stone  and  lime  of  the  Calton !  " 

"And  why  don't  you  make  him  tell?"  exclaimed  the 
fiscal.  "  If  the  man  can  give  valuable  information  which 
would  lead  to  the  conviction  of  offenders,  why  does  he  not 
give  it?  " 

"  Because   if   he   did,   he   would   be   of  no   more   use," 
283 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

answered  the  chief.  "  I  am  beginning  to  see  a  lot  of  things 
I  didn't  when  I  was  young.  What  we  are  doing  is  just 
repression.  Molesay  cures.  We  scotch  the  nettle  tops.  He 
digs  out  the  roots.  But  all  the  same,  a  hint  from  Molesay 
is  pure  gold,  and  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Findlayson,  I  am  under 
considerable  obligations  to  Molesay." 

"  Humph !  "  said  the  fiscal,  who  thought  that  Hender- 
land  was  sometimes  too  sentimental.     "Well?" 

"  Well,"  said  Henderland,  "  Molesay  has  been  all  the 
morning  with  young  Mackenzie,  and  he  is  assured  of  his 
innocence." 

"  Tut!  "  said  the  fiscal.  "  Let  us  see.  The  young  fel- 
low has  had  a  deadly  quarrel  with  his  father.  He  has  sup- 
planted that  same  father  in  the  affections  of  his  betrothed — 
a  fine  point  that,  the  merest  duffer  could  hang  him  on  it. 
He  is  caught  masquerading  in  borrowed  clothes  in  his 
father's  house  at  midnight,  when  all  the  servants  had  gone 
to  view  the  fire  at  the  reformatory " 

"  Right,"  demurred  the  chief,  "  except  on  one  point — 
that  is,  he  wasn't  caught.  He  gave  himself  up  at  once  at 
the  nearest  police  station !  " 

"Yes,"  retorted  the  fiscal;  "that  was  because  he  knew 
that  suspicion  would  inevitably  fall  upon  him.  Indeed,  a 
letter  written  by  him  has  been  found,  which,  if  it  does 
not  directly  threaten  his  father's  life,  at  least  states  plainly 
enough  that  that  life  would  not  be  a  long  one.  This  son 
alone  benefits — he  is  sole  legatee.  No  will  is  found,  yet  it 
was  a  probable  intention  on  the  part  of  his  father  to  make 
a  contrary  one." 

"  But  the  young  man  had  received  a  letter  from  his 
father  quite  recently,  showing  that  friendship  was  reestab- 
lished between  them,"  said  the  chief. 

"  Have  you  seen  it?"  demanded  the  fiscal  sharply. 
284 


CAPTAIN    HENDERLAND 

"  No,"  said  Captain  Henderland — "  no,  but  Molesay 
has!" 

"  We  had  better  make  this  Molesay  chief  of  police  when 
you  resign,"  sneered  the  lawyer.  "  He  appears  to  know 
more  of  your  business  than  you  do  yourself." 

"  I  have  got  through  my  business  for  a  quarter  of  a  cen- 
tury," said  Henderland  quietly,  "  mostly  by  keeping  an  open 
mind.  But  you  are  not  so  far  wrong,  fiscal,  after  all.  Mole- 
say would  make  a  better  chief  than  any  promoted  divisional 
inspector,  trained  only  in  faction  fights  and  street  rows !  " 

"  Suffers  from  '  open  mind,'  too,  I  suppose !  "  said  the 
fiscal  grinning. 

"  Yes,  he  has  a  mind ! "  said  Henderland  innocently. 
"  He  thinks  with  it." 

"  Meaning  me?  "  retorted  the  fiscal.  "  Well,  it  isn't  my 
business  to  think,  you  see;  only  to  register  facts  which  you 
find  out,  and  collate  them  for  you!  Then — the  Powers 
Above  take  action  or  not  as  pleaseth  them!  " 

"  Findlayson,"  said  the  chief,  "  it's  no  use  you  and  me 
bandying  words.  We  have  known  each  other  too  long.  We 
will  hold  young  Mackenzie;  in  the  meantime — that  is,  as 
you  say  there  is  quite  enough  to  justify  that " 

"  I  should  think  so,  indeed !  "  said  the  fiscal  promptly. 

"  Well — well !  "  said  the  chief  soothingly ;  "  but  you  will 
not  interfere  with  my  discretion  if  I  give  a  look  elsewhere. 
There  are  a  few  things  about  the  case  which  need  clearing 
up.  Now,  for  instance,  the  firing  of  the  reformatory  on  the 
night  of  the  murder " 

"  That  might  have  been  the  young  man  himself,"  said 
the  fiscal — "  an  excellent  dodge  to  draw  off  attention.  He 
knew  a  man  like  Lord  Athabasca  would  be  sure  to  send  off 
all  able-bodied  servants  to  help,  and  that  the  others  would 
go  of  their  own  accord !    Confirmatory  evidence,  I  call  it !  " 

285 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

"  Molesay — "  began  the  chief. 

"Hang  Molesay!"  cried  the  exasperated  man  of  law. 
"  What  Molesay  said  is  not  evidence.  I  suppose  even  a 
policeman  knows  that." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  the  chief  imperturbably — for  he 
knew  his  man,  and  got  along  very  well  with  him  on  the 
whole — "  /  say  it.  This  young  man  is  no  ordinary  rich 
man's  son.  He  has  made  his  own  living  ever  since  he 
was  twenty — logging,  farming,  trading  with  Indians — his 
mother  was  one,  you  know,  the  daughter  of  a  great  fighting 
chief " 

"  Hum — another  good  point,"  said  the  fiscal,  making  a 
note.  "  Hereditary  bloodthirstiness — tell  with  a  jury,  that. 
Any  mollycoddle  could  have  him  strung  up.  And  parricide 
is  big  money,  too — don't  often  come  across  such  a  case  even 
in  low  life.  I  wish  my  nephew  had  been  ready,  but  he  isn't 
called  yet !  " 

"  Better  where  he  is,"  said  the  chief  dryly.  "  If  that  is 
the  line  he  would  find  himself  obliged  to  take  up !  As  I  see 
things,  a  clever  young  fellow  like  Mackenzie  would  not  be 
at  such  pains  to  provide  so  much  evidence,  all  on  the  top  of 
things,  visible  to  the  naked  eye.  Furthermore,  he  would 
not  burn  a  reformatory  which  his  own  money  had  largely 
built  and  fitted.     It  is  plainly  unthinkable." 

"Hum!"  said  the  fiscal,  raising  his  hand  toward  the 
folios  of  indexed  police  cuttings,  informations,  and  so  forth 
which  cumbered  the  shelves,  "  considered  in  the  cool  light 
of  probability — before  these  things  happened — what  per- 
centage of  them  would  you  have  considered  unthinkable?" 

"  Ah,  that's  true!  "  said  the  chief.  "  All  the  same — you 
go  on  with  your  examinations  and  remandings  of  this  young 
fellow.  There's  nothing  in  that  to  prevent  me  from  making 
a  few  inquiries  on  my  own  account,  is  there?" 

286 


CAPTAIN    HENDERLAND 

And  so  the  next  day  Captain  Henderland,  accompanied 
by  Mr.  Molesay  in  the  capacity  of  a  guide,  and  both  in 
severely  plain  clothes,  once  more  made  their  way  across 
Maw  Moss  in  the  direction  of  the  "  Peat." 

They  found  Mr.  Carvel,  exceedingly  brisk,  apparently 
very  much  in  his  element,  not  in  the  least  sitting  still  among 
the  ruins  of  Rome,  but  rather,  in  the  spirit  of  a  man  who 
had  pulled  down  his  barns  to  build  greater,  bustling  the 
builders  about  their  tasks. 

"Harm  done?"  he  said.  "Yes,  of  course,  capt — 
I  mean  sir  "  (it  had  been  agreed  that  he  was  not  to  recognize 
the  chief  of  metropolitan  police) — "  but  I  don't  know  but 
what,  after  all,  it  will  do  us  good.  We  were  settling  down 
on  the  lees.  Before  I  had  got  everything  comfortably  to 
my  mind,  and  now  I  have  to  tug  about  and  see  what  will 
do  for  my  boys.  Lost  any?  Well,  one  new  boy — No.  680, 
name  of  Duffus,  has  disappeared — a  bad  egg  from  the 
training  ships,  I  fancy.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  shan't  be  much 
disappointed  if  he  does  not  turn  up  again.  From  what  I 
hear,  he  would  have  been  small  credit  to  the  school." 

"What  kind  of  a  boy  to  look  at?"  inquired  the  chief. 
"  A  big,  brutal  boy — strong,  violent  ?  " 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Carvel.  "  Butter  wouldn't 
melt  in  his  mouth — smooth  spoken,  smart,  well  dressed 
when  he  came  here — great  fellow  to  write,  a  favorite  with 
our  schoolmaster — made  him  a  sort  of  monitor !  " 

"  Ho!  "  said  the  chief.  "  And  so  this  nonesuch  of  a  pupil 
made  off,  did  he,  the  night  of  the  fire?  Where  did  it  orig- 
inate— in  that  boy's  dormitory,  perhaps?" 

"  Bless  you,  no,"  said  Carvel.  "  Happily  there  was  no 
suspicion  of  that  kind.  The  fire  never  even  sniffed  at  the 
dormitories,  and  all  the  boys  worked  liked  Trojans — espe- 
cially red-headed  Lister  and  a  new  boy  they  call  the  Kid — 

287 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

whose  father  is,  I  believe,  well  known  in  the  city  as  '  Knifer 
Jackson.'  " 

The  chief  turned  his  head  quickly  as  a  terrier  when  he 
smells  out  an  inhabited  rat  hole. 

"  '  Knifer  '  Jackson's  son?  "  he  said  quickly.  "  I  would 
like  to  talk  a  bit  with  him.    What's  he  in  here  for?  " 

"  Egham  Castle  attempt,"  said  Carvel  briefly.  "  But  for 
all  the  Kid  knew  about  that — why,  it  might  have  been  my 
lad  or  yours!  Only  he  is  better  with  us  than  back  home 
with  his  people " 

"  I  know — Hagman's  Court,  Pleasance,"  said  Mr.  Mole- 
say  smiling.  "  You  are  right,  Carvel.  But  if  anything  should 
happen  to  his  stepfather — or  if  we  could  otherwise  provide 
for  him — I  think  that  among  us  we  might  get  a  remission 
of  the  rest  of  his  sentence.  I  did  think  of  sending  him  out 
with  Mr.  Hearne  Mackenzie  on  his  next  trip.  Mr.  Carvel 
and  I  talked  it  over  the  last  time  I  was  out  here.  That's 
over  for  the  present,  of  course.  But  if  a  chance  should  occur 
we  shall  expect  you  to  do  the  square  thing  and  back  us  up — 
eh,  Henderland?  " 

"  Oh,  flighted !  "  said  Henderland.  "  My  business  is 
to  get  convictions.  After  that,  the  sooner  the  fellow  gets 
off  the  better." 

Carvel  shouted  at  a  passing  warder. 

"Send  No.  666  to  me!" 

The  Kid  came,  wiping  his  curls  with  his  Glengarry 
bonnet.  He  had  been  helping  to  fit  the  winter  recreation 
room  with  temporary  schoolroom  furniture.  His  face  was 
flushed,  and  his  bright,  clear  eyes  looked  wonderingly  at  the 
three  gentlemen. 

"Don't  look  a  very  abandoned  ruffian,  does  he?"  said 
Henderland  grimly. 

"Wonderful!"  exclaimed  the  city  missionary,  "  con- 
288 


CAPTAIN    HENDERLAND 

sidering,  that  is,  where  he  came  from  and  the  training  he 
had  had." 

"Do  you  want  to  leave  the  reformatory,  boy?"  said 
Henderland  quickly,  keeping,  as  far  as  possible,  all  official- 
ism out  of  his  voice. 

"Oh,  no,  sir!"  said  McGhie's  Kid.  "I'm  learning  a 
lot  here." 

"  Did  you  never  learn  before?  "  said  Henderland  in  the 
easiest  of  conversational  tones. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  the  Kid,  "  at  '  Blind  Jacob's  ' !  But 
that's  all  over — done  wi'.  I  am  learning  in  the  joiners'  shop, 
sir.     It's  wrang  to  break  into  hooses,  sir." 

"  Very  right — very  right,"  said  the  chief  approvingly. 
"  We  must  do  something  for  you  before  long " 

"  If  ye  please,  I  want  to  pass  the  fifth  standard 
first,"  said  the  Kid.  "  And  noo  that  Mr.  Grainer  is  sent 
away " 


"  Hush!  "  exclaimed  Carvel.  "  That  has  nothing  to  do 
with  you,  No.  666 !  " 

The  Kid  stood  silent,  as  the  chief  with  much  nonchalance 
took  a  large  knife  out  of  his  pocket,  opened  it  with  a  formi- 
dable click,  and — fell  to  sharpening  a  pencil  with  it. 

"  Eh!  "  cried  the  startled  Kid,  "  where  did  you  get  that? 
That's  my  f aither's  knife !  That's  '  Knifer '  Jackson's 
knife!" 

"  You  are  sure?  " 

"  If  it  is,  it  will  hae  five  nicks  cut  deep  on  the  handle — 
they  mean  something  or  ither." 

The  five  nicks  were  duly  found,  the  one  belonging  to 
the  evil  doer  smitten  on  the  Whinny  Knowe  being  yet  quite 
fresh. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  chief.  "  I  shall  not  forget  you, 
Kid." 

289 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

Carvel  moved  his  hand  in  the  direction  of  the  working 
gang,  and  the  Kid  took  himself  off  obediently. 

"  And  now,  gentlemen,"  said  the  chief  of  police  impress- 
ively, as  he  watched  the  urchin's  retreating  back,  while  he 
held  the  knife  all  along  his  palm,  "  that  clasp  knife  was  the 
one  found  in  Lord  Athabasca's  throat  the  night  he  was  mur- 
dered !  " 

"Ha!"  snorted  Carvel,  greatly  startled;  and  then 
recovering  himself,  he  added,  "  All  the  same,  captain,  I'll 
thank  you  not  to  set  any  more  traps  for  my  boys!  " 

The  Kid  had  no  idea  that  he  had  given  away  anything. 
His  exclamation  at  the  sight  of  his  stepfather's  famous  knife 
in  the  possession  of  a  stranger  had  been  altogether  instinctive, 
"  Nark,"  "  split,"  "  mouther,"  "  sawny  " — he  was  none  of 
these — only,  he  wondered  what  that  keen-faced,  kind  man 
with  the  black  mustache  was  doing  with  his  father's  knife. 
He  had  found  it,  the  Kid  supposed.  And  it  was  a  friendly 
warning  he  had  given  him — only  that  and  nothing  more 
— for  no  one  in  their  senses  would  want  to  keep  Knifer 
Jackson's  property. 

As  the  chief  and  Mr.  Molesay  went  home,  Captain 
Henderland  was  exceedingly  pleased  with  himself.  He 
called  the  sudden  production  of  the  clasp  knife  a  dramatic 
stroke.    Mr.  Molesay  shook  his  head. 

"  It  may  be,"  he  said ;  "  but  you  are  going  to  break  up 
one  of  my  most  promising  reformations.  The  Knifer  is 
no  better  than  he  should  be,  perhaps,  though  somehow  I 
never  quite  believed  that  of  him — murder  in  the  way 
of  business,  that  is.  But  now  Mag,  his  wife,  will  go  all 
wrong.  That's  certain.  And  if  you  let  it  out  that  the 
boy  there  told — why,  his  life  won't  be  worth  twenty- 
four    hours'    purchase.      If    Mag   does    not    kill    him,    the 

290 


CAPTAIN    HENDERLAND 

'  Blind  Jacob's  '  people  will  do  so — if  only  for  their  own 
sakes." 

"  Be  easy,  Molesay,"  said  the  chief.  "  I  have  a  wide  net, 
and  I  shan't  use  the  Kid's  evidence  about  the  knife — that  is, 
unless  I  can't  help  it.  From  the  nicks  in  it,  and  the  hole 
in  the  haft  to  put  a  cord  through,  it  should  be  an  old  friend 
of  Knifer's,  and  probably  is  well  known.  If  you  look  in 
to-morrow  I  will  let  you  know  how  far  I  have  got  on." 

"  Well,  captain,"  said  Mr.  Molesay  gently,  "  of  course 
I  want  to  get  the  matter  of  Mr.  Hearne  Mackenzie  settled. 
It's  a  horrible  thing  to  have  a  fine  young  fellow — with  a 
taste  for  mission  work — suspected  of  having  murdered  his 
own  father.  All  the  same,  it  is  all  up  with  Knifer  and 
Mad  Mag!     And  that's  one  pity!" 

"  And  so,  indeed,  it  deserves  to  be  all  up  with  Mr.  Jack- 
son," cried  the  chief  sharply.  "  We  can't  afford  to  have  Mr. 
Police  Missionary  Molesay's  lambs  wandering  about  the 
country,  putting  knives  into  honest  men's  throats,  while  he 
is  taking  his  own  time  converting  them !  " 

"  I  daresay  not,"  said  Mr.  Molesay;  "but  if  you  reflect 
you  will  see — what  I've  often  told  you — that  imprisoning, 
transporting,  penal  servitude — hanging  even — does  the 
criminal   no   good " 

"Stuff!"  said  the  chief,  with  excusable  vehemence, 
"  great  stuff!  Where's  your  Bible  with  its  '  Eye  for  an  eye 
and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth  '  ?  " 

"  Oh!  "  said  Mr.  Molesay  gently,  "  that  was  before  He 
came  to  teach  us  any  better.  That's  about  as  much  out 
of  date  as  the  giants  that  were  before  the  flood.  He  said 
'  Love  your  enemies,  do  good  to '  " 

"  Hut!  "  cried  the  chief  impatiently.  "  Look  here,  Mole- 
say,   do  you   mean    to   say   that   you    love   Knifer   Jackson 

and  your  friend  Mad  Mag ?" 

291 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

"  Yes,   I  do,"  said  the  little  missionary  stoutly. 

"  And  will  you  swear  that  you  have  really  any  hope  of 
doing  them  any  real  good  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have — I  at  least  had  such  hopes.  I've  seen 
worse  cases — more  hopeless,  I  mean." 

Now  the  captain  was  a  somewhat  irascible  man  at  times. 
At  the  missionary's  confession  of  faith  he  took  his  cloth 
cap  off  his  head  and  threw  it  down  in  the  dust  of  the  road 
along  which  they  were  slowly  journeying  in  the  direction 
of  Kingside  Station. 

"  You  are  an  impossible  fellow,  Molesay,"  he  cried ; 
"  the  Cowgate  is  too  good  for  you — too  calm  and  holy. 
You  should  be  missionary  down  below — in  a  fireproof  suit 
— among  the  subjects  of  the  black  gentleman  with  the 
forked  tail !  " 

"  I  should  like  that  very  well,"  said  Mr.  Molesay  simply; 
"  it's  been  tried  before." 

"  How  so?  "  queried  Captain  Henderland,  looking  up  to 
see  if  the  little  man  were  not  joking. 

"  Well,"  said  the  city  missionary,  "  one  Peter,  a  fisher- 
man, who  ought  to  have  known  what  he  was  talking  about, 
says  that  He  went  and  preached  to  the  spirits  in  prison, 
'which  sometime  had  been  disobedient! '  If  He  could,  I 
don't  see  why  it  should  be  impossible  for  me " 

Captain  Henderland  removed  the  little  soft,  green- 
brimmed  hat  from  the  silver  head,  and  felt  Mr.  Molesay's 
cranium  all  over  carefully. 

"  Looking  for  the  crack,"  he  explained,  smiling  at  his 
friend ;  "  I  might  have  known.  What's  the  use  of  talking  to 
a  missionary  about  my  business.  You  wouldn't  care  if 
three  burglaries  and  an  assassination  were  committed  every 
calendar  night,  if  only  the  housebreakers  and  assassins 
dropped  in  to  see  your  magic  lantern  after!  " 

292 


CAPTAIN    HENDERLAND 

"  Something  in  what  you  say — yes,  something — I  don't 
deny  it,"  assented  Mr.  Molesay.  "  The  dyer's  hand,  you 
know.  If  they  look  in  between  eight  and  nine  and  have  a 
clean  necktie  on — I  am  only  too  willing  to  believe  that — 
that — that  the  kingdom  of  God  is  within  them.  And 
that  they  are  growing  conscious  of  it." 

"  Bravo,  Molesay !  "  cried  the  chief.  "  This  has  been  a 
kind  of  holiday  for  me,  up  on  the  moorland — and  with 
you.  It's  about  as  good  as  two  or  three  days  up  aloft, 
among  all  the  angels  that  lost  not  their  first  estate!  Isn't 
that  how  it  goes?  Now  I  must  go  back  to  the  realities 
of  Corn  Beef  Jo,  and  the  Knifer,  and  the  three  hundred 
and  sixty-fourth  conviction  of  your  friend  Ashbucket 
Moll!" 

"  I  think  it  is  only  two  hundred — not  three,"  said 
Molesay — "  two  hundred  and  sixty-fourth,  if  I  mistake 
not!" 

The  chief  held  up  his  hands,  and  intimated  that  he 
had  no  further  arguments  to  pursue  with  Mr.  Archbold 
Molesay,  city  missionary,  presently  of  the  Cowgate. 

But  all  this  did  not  prevent  Captain  Henderland  from 
spreading  a  wide  net,  and  a  sure,  from  Hagman's  Close 
to  the  Water  of  Leith,  and  from  the  chaste  portals  of 
Torphican  Street  even  to  Leith  Links.  His  emissaries 
dredged  Greenside  and  the  Lower  Calton  as  with  grappling 
irons.  They  herded  the  enemies  of  constituted  society 
like  a  flock  of  sheep.  They  encountered  them  away  out  on 
the  roads,  as  far  as  the  Ferries  and  Linlithgow  on  the  one 
hand,  and  unto  Cockmuir  and  "  the  Crook  "  on  the  other. 
Corn  Beef  Jo  was  trapped  drinking  in  a  house  of  call  near 
Portobello,  and  taken  after  a  wild  attempt  to  swim  Lochend 
Loch,  as  he  affirmed,  "  to  catch  a  passing  steamer  " — which 

293 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

would  have  been  a  long  swim,  indeed,  and  much  of  it  on 
dry  land. 

The  Knifer,  who  knew  a  few  things,  never  attempted 
to  get  away  at  all,  but  was  taken,  along  with  his  wife  Mag, 
sitting  in  his  own  hired  house  in  Hagman's  Close. 

<f  Blind  Jacob's,"  its  locality  revealed  by  a  frightened 
pupil,  was  captured  with  all  its  scholastic  furniture,  the  same 
that  can  be  viewed  unto  this  day  in  the  famous  museum  of 
crime  at  the  chief's  offices  in  Edinburgh.  The  scatterment 
after  the  building  of  Babel,  that  very  ancient  city  and  tower, 
was  a  little  local  Mesopotamian  circumstance  compared  to 
this. 

Only  the  Cowgate  remained  partially  exempt,  owing  to 
local  conditions — the  chief  of  which  were,  perhaps,  Billy 
Earsman  and  Mr.  Molesay. 

The  chief  went  to  bed  that  night  with  a  happy  heart. 
He  felt  at  last  that  all  the  strings  were  in  his  hand.  In 
the  meantime  he  kept  the  Knifer's  weapon  of  doom  in 
a  special  drawer  in  the  office  safe,  and — said  nothing 
about  it. 

The  echoes  of  the  great  "  poliss "  raid  filled  all  the 
entrances  of  the  B.  I.  P. — "  jug  and  bottle  " — as  well  as 
"  public,"  with  a  confused  murmur.  Publicly  Ogg  mourned, 
but  in  private  he  rejoiced  exceedingly. 

"  A  good  riddance,"  he  said.  "  They  bring  in  little 
money,  and  give  the  place  a  bad  name.  I'd  rather  see  a 
dozen  thirsty  Gilmerton  carters,  or  a  string  o'  Bertam's 
foundry  lads  up  frae  the  Walk,  than  all  the  '  fly  coves  ' 
let  loose  frae  Perth   Penitentiary!" 

Ogg,  king  of  Bashen,  had  spoken;  there  was  no  appeal. 

But  Mr.  Molesay,  in  spite  of  several  Delphic  utterances, 
designed  to  put  his  most  promising  frequenters  on  their 
guard,  had  to  mourn  thinly  attended  meetings  and  sundry 

294 


CAPTAIN    HENDERLAND 

gaps  in  his  carefully  kept  pocketbook  lists.     He  explained 
the  matter,  however,  and  drew  his  moral  clear. 

"  My  friends,"  he  said,  the  silver-gray  head  under  the 
flaring  gas  jet  appearing  as  if  crowned  with  an  aureole, 
"  I  cannot  preach  to  you — I  never  do.  Perhaps  that  is 
why  so  many  of  you  come  here  month  after  month.  You 
never  get  tired  of  my  sermons.  What  I  have  got  to  say  to- 
night is  plain.  We  have  lost  some  well-known  faces  from 
among  us.  We  mourn  a  few  vacant  chairs.  We  believe 
they  will  soon  be  back  again.  We  feel  sure  that  they  are 
innocent.  They  have  stopped  wrong  doing.  That  can  be 
done  in  a  moment,  like  a  clapping  of  hands,  but  it  takes  a 
long  while  to  reestablish  character.  And  our  friends  have 
been  "  (he  was  going  to  say  "  lagged  ")  "  — ahem — separated 
from  us  because  of  their  past.  And  the  motto  is,  my  friends, 
'What  thou  doest,  do  quickly!'  Do  it  now!  In  Christ's 
name,  put  on  the  new  man.  Reform — so  that  there  will  be 
plenty  of  time  to  work  up  a  new  character — perhaps  not  so 
fine  as  the  lord  provost's,  but  at  least  as  good  as  an  average 
town  councilor's !  Amen.  Let  us  sing,  '  Jerusalem  the 
Golden.'     Number  464." 


295 


CHAPTER    XXII 

THE   BITTERNESS  OF  DEATH   IS   OVERPAST 

HE  final  examination  of  Hearne  Mackenzie 
before  the  sheriff  resulted,  in  spite  of  all 
preconception  and  misconception,  in  the  dis- 
persion of  the  clouds  of  suspicion.  Sheriff 
Peebles  was  in  a  better  humor.  He  had  just 
returned  from  his  holiday,  and  felt  revived  after  the  fatigues 
and  annoyances  consequent  upon  the  bringing  into  the  world 
of  his  eighth  child — a  fine  boy.  He  was  now,  on  the  whole, 
rather  pleased  with  the  achievement.  And  if  his  wife  was 
going  about  the  house  like  a  ghost,  pale  and  thin,  why — she 
was  always  like  that,  more  or  less.  Sheriff  Peebles  had  never 
seen  such  a  woman  for  complaining.  Why,  the  other  night, 
when  he  had  come  home  from  his  club — a  little  late,  it  is 
true — if  she  had  not  taken  it  upon  herself  to  faint,  and  he 
had  to  go  in  search  of  the  doctor — a  very  hard  thing  for 
a  man  in  his  position,  with  his  work  to  do  the  next  day ! 

Oh,  this  Hearne  Mackenzie — a  dreadful  thing!  Sheriff 
Peebles  held  up  his  hands  at  the  thought.  He  had  known 
the  murdered  father  well — had  even  shaken  hands  with  him 
as  many  as  three  times  at  public  meetings.  And  to  think 
that  his  son — his  only  son,  too! 

And  again  Sheriff  Peebles  held  up  his  hands. 
"  I  suppose  there  is  nothing  for  it,  Mr.   Findlayson," 
296 


THE    BITTERNESS    IS    OVERPAST 

he  said ;  "  we  must  commit  him  ?  It  is  a  clear  case,  as  it 
seems  to  me." 

The  procurator  fiscal  shook  his  head,  perhaps  a  little 
reluctantly.     Once  he  had  thought  the  same. 

"  It  did  seem  so  at  first,"  he  said,  "  and  to  me  the  evi- 
dence seemed  very  positive,  but  it  appears  that  Captain 
Henderland  has  discovered  the  owner  of  the  knife.  And, 
on  reviewing  the  whole  matter  with  him,  and  in  the  light  of 
the  new  information  which  Henderland  has  laid  before 
me,  I — I  am  bound  to  say  that  there  is  nothing  improbable 
in  the  tale  of  the  young  man.  He  tells  it  plainly.  I  think 
you  had  better  hear  him  again." 

"  Well,  if  you  think  it  necessary,"  lamented  Sheriff 
Peebles.  "  You  will,  however,  kindly  remember  that  I  have 
not  quite  recovered  from  the  severe  shock  I  had  some  time 
ago,  Findlayson.     I  am  a  sick  man,  sir!  " 

"I  will  remember,  sheriff!"  said  the  fiscal,  with  ex- 
treme aridity. 

Hearne  Mackenzie  was  brought  in  for  examination,  and 
the  fiscal  addressed  him. 

"  Sir,"  he  said,  "  I  own  that  at  first  I  was  exceedingly 
prejudiced  against  you — as  any  man  must  have  been  who 
believed  you  guilty,  or  even  accessory  to  the  fact.  But 
matters  have  taken  a  turn  in  your  favor — I  don't  mind  say- 
ing— to  my  extreme  surprise.  And,  for  myself,  I  am  in- 
clined to  believe  your  story.  I  have  told  the  sheriff  so. 
Now,  will  you  be  good  enough  to  repeat  what  you  told 
us  formerly,  as  briefly  as  possible?  I  can  promise  you  that 
we  will  be  inclined  to  hear  it  very  differently." 

Hearne  bowed  slightly.  He  had  lost  something  of  his 
out-of-door  look  by  his  confinement  in  the  Calton,  but  he 
stood  up  as  self-contained  and  erect  as  ever. 

"  I  was  staying  on  at  the  Inn  of  Kingside,  after  having 
20  297 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

given  in  my  resignation  at  the  reformatory,"  he  said.  "  My 
father  had  found  a  letter  which  I  had  addressed  to — a 
young  lady  whom  he  proposed  to  -marry.  He  quarreled 
with  me  on  that  account.  I  do  not  blame  him,  though  I 
think  that  somehow  he  must  have  misread  what  I  wrote " 

"  I  have  the  document  under  my  hand,"  said  the  fiscal. 
"  Tell  me  how  you  think  your  father  may  have  misread  the 
letter  you  wrote  to — the  lady." 

It  was  a  copy  which  was  handed  to  Hearne. 

He  read  it  carefully  and  his  face  flushed. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  did  write  part  of  that  letter  to  Miss 
Patricia  McGhie,  then  staying  with  her  uncle  at  Egham 
Castle.  In  my  opinion  it  is  every  man  for  himself  in  such 
matters,  and  I  don't — I  did  not,  that  is — recognize  that 
my  father  had  any  right  to  come  between  me  and  the  only 
woman  I  ever  loved.  My  father  would  have  treated  me 
just  the  same.  It  was  our  habit,  as  between  man  and  man. 
But  "  (he  added  with  increasing  emphasis),  "  though  I  wrote 
the  letter  down  to  '  ever  as  now,  your  friend  and  lover,'  the 
rest  I  never  wrote  and  know  nothing  of.  It  has  obviously 
been  added  to  anger  my  father.  The  original  cannot  be 
in  my  handwriting." 

The  sheriff  made  a  motion  with  his  head,  and  the  fiscal, 
going  round  the  table,  put  the  original,  found  in  Lord 
Athabasca's  strong  box,  before  the  young  man's  eyes. 

Hearne  was  manifestly  perplexed.  He  examined  the 
crushed  letter  closely. 

"It  is  certainly  very  like — marvelously  so,  indeed,"  he 
said ;  "  but  all  the  same  I  never  wrote  the  last  sentences  of 
the  letter,  which  are  quite  out  of  keeping  with  the  rest. 
They  are  not  the  composition  of  an  educated  man.  They 
are  rude  and  insolent,  and  indeed  obvious  additions  to  the 
true  letter,  which  ends  plainly  enough  at  the  place  specified. 

298 


THE    BITTERNESS    IS    OVERPAST 

The  rest  is  clumsy  enough  as  a  forgery — all  but  the  writing, 
which  is  certainly  wonderfully  like  my  own !  " 

"  Read  the  sentences  which  you  assert  are  not  yours," 
said   the  sheriff. 

My  father  cannot  last  long,'  "  read  the  fiscal,  who 
had  drawn  back  the  original  letter.  "  '  I  am  heir  to  all  that 
he  possesses.  You  might  do  worse  than  go  off  to  some  snug 
hiding  place  such  as  we  know  of  till  the  storm  blows  over. 
Then  you  may  have  the  money,  the  peerage,  and  your 
sweetheart,  too.'  " 

"  I  never  wrote  these  words — the  suggestion  is  abominable 
— inconceivable — both  as  to  my  father  and  in  what  con- 
cerns the  lady.  It  would  have  been  impossible  for  me  to 
have  written  them." 

"  That,"  said  the  sheriff  sententiously,  "  is  a  matter  of 
opinion.  At  least  the  forgery  took  in  your  father,  who 
might  have  been  expected  to  know  you  best.  He  thought 
the  words  were  yours !  " 

"  He  was,  not  unnaturally,  very  angry,"  said  Hearne. 
"  I  do  not  say  he  had  no  cause.  But — he  made  no  effort 
to  alter  his  intentions  with  regard  to  me  as  his  son!  " 

"  But,"  objected  Sheriff  Peebles,  "  in  effect,  the  affair 
did  work  out  so.  This  letter  was  written  before  the  flight 
of  the  young  lady,  and  she  did  conceal  herself  in  a  hiding 
place  known  to  you  both !  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon !  "  said  Hearne  clearly  and  icily. 
"  The  part  of  the  letter  which  /  wrote  is  certainly  prior 
in  date  to  Miss  Patricia  McGhie's  flight  from  Egham 
Castle  on  the  morning  of  February  25th;  but  the  additions 
were  no  doubt  made  immediately  before  the  letter  was  sent 
to  my  father." 

"  Can  you  suggest  any  clew  as  to  who  could  have  had 
a  motive  for  injuring  you,  or  the  necessary  skill  to  make 

299 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

such  extensive  alterations?     Had  you  any  enemies  at  the 
reformatory?  " 

"  Not  that  I  know  of,"  said  Hearne  slowly,  "  unless — 
unless  "  (he  spoke  with  reluctance),  "  yes,  there  was  a  school- 
master of  the  name  of  Grainer — since  dismissed — who  re- 
sented my  being  there  in  a  salaried  position.  But  I  should 
have  thought  him  quite  incapable  of  the  forgery,  so  far 
as  the  calligraphy  was  concerned.  He  wrote  like — well, 
like  a  learned  pig!  " 

The  fiscal  made  a  note  to  tell  this  to  Henderland,  who 
had  an  extraordinary  faculty  for  putting  two  and  two 
together. 

"  And  now,"  continued  the  sheriff,  "  give  us  a  clear  ac- 
count of  your  actions  on  the  night  of  the  burning  of  the 
reformatory,  and  of  the  finding  of  your  father." 

As  clearly  as  if  he  had  been  giving  a  lesson  in  the 
"  Hearne  Mackenzie,"  the  young  man  stated  his  case — 
the  wetting  on  the  moor,  the  borrowing  of  the  landlord's 
clothes,  the  early  going  to  bed,  the  awakening  with  the 
dancing  red  lights  in  his  chamber  luster — the  idea  of  the 
fire  engine  at  Three  Ridings,  the  single  candle  he  had  seen 
passing  athwart  the  rooms  on  the  first  floor  of  the  silent 
house  as  he  approached,  and,  lastly,  in  a  voice  that  trembled 
a  little,  the  account  of  what  he  had  found  waiting  for  him 
there,  and  his  hurried  summons  of  Inspector  McKay. 

"  I  am  bound  to  say,"  remarked  the  fiscal,  with  a  certain 
reluctant  courage,  "  that  all  which  you  have  advanced  on 
your  own  behalf  shows  a  disposition  to  affirm  itself  by  other 
evidence." 

He  turned  to  the  sheriff: 

"  I  do  not  think  that  I  can  advise  you  to  commit  this 
gentleman.  And  I  think  we  cannot  do  better  than  set  him 
at  liberty — provisionally,  that  is — advising  him  for  his  own 

300 


THE    BITTERNESS    IS    OVERPAST 

sake  to  be  ready  to  appear  at  any  time,  and  give  what  evi- 
dence may  best  assist  the  course  of  justice." 

"  Your  lordship  is  at  liberty !  "  said  Sheriff  Peebles, 
who  loved  dignities,  especially  of  the  hereditary  sort.  He  had 
been  a  convinced  Tory  ever  since  he  had  once  had  the  honor 
of  lunching  with  an  earl.  "  I  regret  very  much  that  you 
should  have  been  put  to  so  much  trouble;  but  the  course  of 
justice,  like  that  of  true  love,  does  not  always  run  smooth." 

Hearne  only  bowed  gravely  without  answering. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  continued  Sheriff  Peebles  amicably,  "  that 
in  the  present  difficult  domestic  circumstances  of  my  house- 
hold I  cannot  offer  you  the  hospitality  of  a  friend  of  your 
lamented  father;  but  if  your  lordship  will  dine  with  me 
at  my  club — they  have  quite  good  bedrooms  there — and — 
my  introduction  would  be  sufficient.  They  know  me  at  the 
Bench  and  Bar!  " 

"  I  thank  you,"  said  the  grave  grandson  of  Chief  Crow- 
foot, "  but  I  have  friends  in  the  city  whom  it  is  my  duty  to 
relieve  from  anxiety  as  soon  as  possible." 

He  bowed  again,  and  went  forth  into  the  keen  northerly 
air  of  that  early  summer  time  a  free  man. 

The  fiscal  and  the  sheriff  looked  at  each  other  steadily 
a  moment,  and  then  they  smiled. 

"  He  is  going  to  her !  "  said  the  fiscal,  and  rubbed  his 
hands.  He,  too,  had  once  been  young,  and  besides  he  was 
pleased  with  Hearne  for  snubbing  the  sheriff. 

"  Hum !  "  said  the  latter,  gathering  up  all  his  belongings 
and  wrapping  his  throat  up  carefully,  "  after  they  have  been 
married  twelve  years  and  have  eight  or  nine  children,  he 
won't  be  in  such  a  hurry !    /  am  going  to  my  club !  " 

As  a  matter  of  fact  and  history  the  men  of  law  were 
right.      Hearne  Mackenzie  did  go  straight  to   Mr.  Mole- 

301 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

say.  In  some  uncertainty  he  threaded  the  unfamiliar  mazes 
which  lead  down  to  the  Cowgate.  In  the  Vennel  the  name 
of  Mr.  Molesay  was  still  unknown.  The  Grass  Market  had 
heard  of  him  vaguely — but  as  one  altogether  given  up  to 
devious  courses  and  the  favoring  of  the  hated  Cowgate. 

He  turned  down  a  short  gray-black  street  with  clammy 
pavements.  A  rare  policeman  regarded  him  with  the  jealous 
eye  of  suspicion,  from  which  he  was  only  delivered  when  he 
found  himself  in  front  of  the  many  attractions  of  Ogg, 
king  of  Bashen's  Imperial  Palace.  Billy  Earsman  presided 
behind  the  beer  pulls,  his  chest  well  out,  his  arms  bare,  white- 
aproned,  and  with  the  pride  of  unbroken  success  in  his  eye. 
His  look  said,  "  Sirs  and  burgesses  of  this  lower  city,  every 
man  is  at  liberty  to  remain  here  so  long  as  he  pays  his  drinks 
and  behaves  himself.  If  not,  by  these  brawny  arms,  I,  Billy 
Earsman,  will  have  the  greatest  pleasure  in  pitching  him 
out  on  the  pavement!  " 

"Mr.  Molesay — do  I  know  him?"  shouted  Billy  Ears- 
man,  flinging  back  his  head,  "  do  I  know  the  B.  I.  P.? 
Do  I  know  Magdalen's  Chapel?  Do  I  know  the  Sooth 
Back?  Perhaps  not!  But  I  know  Mr.  Molesay.  Every- 
body— man,  woman,  and  child  in  the  Cowgate  knows  Mr. 
Molesay.  And  if  you  are  a  rent  collecter,  or  a  blessed  shark 
of  any  kind  come  to  bother  him  about  money — for  his 
mission  hall  feu  duty  or  what  not"  (Billy  buckled  up  the 
rolls  of  white  shirt  sleeve  tighter)  "  ye  will  not  get  far  along 
this  illustrious  thoroughfare!  No,  ye  will  find  the  dispensary 
convenient!  " 

Smiling,  Hearne  informed  Billy  that  he  cherished  no  ill 
intentions,  that  in  good  truth  he  was  infinitely  indebted 
to  the  city  missionary,  and  that  he  had  come  to  ask  another 
favor  of  him. 

"  Indebted  to  him — I  bet  ye  are — I  just  bet  ye  have 
302 


THE    BITTERNESS    IS    OVERPAST 

been !  "  cried  Billy,  instantly  appeased,  "  and  what's  mair 
— if  it  is  the  coat  and  waistcoat  he  has  on  to  his  back  this 
blessed  minute,  ye  hae  come  to  seek,  ye  will  get  them.  He's 
no  fit  to  live,  that  man.  He's  juist  gane  by  to  see  Blind 
Fiddler  Helm's  wife — that  is  a  thankless  madam,  and  tak's 
the  lend  o'  a  saint,  if  ever  there  was  a  saint  i'  this  world. 
He'll  be  back  in  ten  minutes.  Ye  can  bide  by  that  window, 
and  I  will  tell  you  when  I  hear  his  wee  bits  o'  boot  heels 
come  clickety-clack  on  the  paving  stones !  For  he  aye  keeps 
the  middle  o'  the  road,  so  as  to  be  able  to  shake  hands  wi' 
onybody  on  either  side." 

It  was  perhaps  rather  more  than  ten  minutes  that  Hearne 
had  to  wait  before  the  aforementioned  tap-tapping  on  the 
pavement  announced  the  return  of  Mr.  Molesay.  Billy 
stepped  to  the  door  to  see  fair  play.  Hearne  had  ordered 
no  liquor  for  the  "  good  of  the  house,"  and  this  impressed 
Billy  with  the  idea  that  he  was  either  a  very  bad  sort 
indeed — sheriff's  officer,  perhaps — or  one  of  what  Billy 
called  "  his  own  kind  " — meaning  thereby,  "  Mr.  Mole- 
say's  mission  folk." 

At  the  sight  of  Hearne,  standing  right  in  the  fairway, 
the  little  city  missionary  stopped  troubled.  He  was  thinking 
of  the  interview  in  the  police  cells.  So  agitated  was  he 
that  Billy,  deciding  that  Hearne  was  a  sheriff's  officer  after 
all,  advanced  truculently  with  his  elbows  in  the  position  of 
combat.  For  several  seconds  Hearne's  head  was  in  con- 
siderable danger  of  punching,  but  the  next  moment  Mr. 
Molesay  held  out  his  hand,  and  said  a  little  wistfully,  "  You 
have  been  discharged — you  have  come  to  find  Miss  Pa- 
tricia?" 

Hearne  smiled  with  his  usual  grave  sweetness. 

"  It  does  not  take  a  prophet  to  foretell  that,"  he  said, 
"and — you  know!" 

303 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

"  Yes,"  said  the  little  city  missionary,  with  his  eyes  on 
the  black,  gletty  paving  stones,  "I  know!" 

Then  he  recovered  himself  somewhat,  looked  shyly  up 
at  Hearne,  even  with  a  kind  of  shamefacedness,  and  said, 
"  Come  with  me!  " 

Billy,  still  standing  on  the  pavement,  now  began  to  look 
wistful  in  his  turn. 

"  Good  day,  Billy,"  said  Mr.  Molesay,  somewhat  mourn- 
fully. 

Billy  marked  the  sadness,  and  his  great  hairy  arms 
angled  themselves  a  little  more  militantly. 

"  Sure  you  don't  want  me?  "  he  cried,  his  suspicions  now 
thoroughly  aroused.  "  I'll  '  knock  '  that  fellow  with  pleasure 
if  he  has  come  after  anything — anything  you  don't  want 
him  to  have !  " 

Billy  followed  a  few  steps,  menacing,  hopeful. 

Mr.  Molesay  sighed  and  shook  his  head,  smiling  a  little. 

"  Nothing  that  you  can  help  me  with,  Billy,"  said  Mr. 
Molesay.    "  Why  this  gentleman  is  a  lord — a  real  lord !  " 

"  I  doan't  care  if  he  was  the  only  one  there  was!  "  said 
Billy.  "  If  he  came  to  Cowgate  to  annoy  you,  sir,  I'd  knock 
his  head  into  a  lump  of  putty  in  five  minutes!  " 

"  Thank  you,  Billy — I  shall  remember,"  said  the  mis- 
sionary, "  but  he  only  wants  to  ...  to  ...  "  (something 
made  a  difficulty  in  his  throat)  "  take  away  from  us  some- 
thing that  we  can't — can't — hope  to  keep  in  the  Cowgate!  " 

"  Well,"  said  Billy,  with  hope  not  yet  quite  dead  in  his 
eye,  "  if  you  don't  want  him  to  have  it — no  more  he  shan't. 
I  would  do  six  months  for  him,  rather,  pleased  and  proud !  " 

"Thank  you,  no!"  said  the  missionary  hastily,  seeing 
that  Billy's  evident  intentions  with  regard  to  Hearne's  figure- 
head were  stirring  the  Cowgaters  with  the  hope  of  a  fight 
(chiefest  of  all  recreations).     "This  is  Mr.  Hearne,  son 

304 


THE    BITTERNESS    IS    OVERPAST 

of  the  late  Lord  Athabasca,  who  has  come  asking  for  Miss 
Patricia.     Your  wife,  Kate,  will  tell  you  the  rest." 

Billy's  muscular  arms  dropped  to  his  side. 

"  Then  there  is  to  be  no  punching,  sir,"  he  said.  And 
turning  to  Hearne  he  added,  "  I  always  upheld  that  you 
didn't  do  it!  I  have  five  quid  on  your  getting  off,  even 
money." 

"  It's  wicked  to  bet,  Billy,"  said  the  city  missionary, 
"  and  after  what  you  have  promised  me,  too !  But  if  it's  a 
comfort  to  you,  you  have  won  your  money.  Mr.  Hearne 
had  no  more  to  do  with  it  than  I  had — less  indeed,  I  do 
believe.  For  it  was  I  who  advised  Miss  Patricia  to  run 
away,  which  was  the  beginning  of  everything.  If  it 
hadn't  been  for  that,  poor  Lord  Athabasca  would  have 
been  safe  and  sound  —  a  thousand  miles  away  on  his 
honeymoon!  " 

For  the  first  time  the  stoic  face  of  Chief  Crowfoot's 
grandson  twitched. 

"  Never — "  he  said  hastily,  "  you  may  make  yourself  easy, 
Mr.  Molesay — she  never  would  have  married  my  father. 
She  told  me  so  herself!  " 

Billy's  nod  expressed  approval. 

"  Ay,"  he  said,  "  and  that's  true!  My  wife,  Kate,  knew 
it  from  the  beginning.  Your  mind  may  keep  itself  easy, 
sir! 

"  Thank  you,  Billy,"  said  Mr.  Molesay,  turning  ab- 
ruptly on  his  heel.  "  Now  we  are  going  to  call  on  Mrs. 
Rodgers." 

But  all  the  same  he  did  not  seem  very  grateful. 

Billy  watched  them  out  of  sight,  his  huge  hands  thrust 
under  his  white  apron  and  rolled  up  like  a  big  double  bar 
of  soap.  "  The  little  'un's  got  something  on  his  mind.  He 
don't  like  what  the  big  long  one  has  come  for.     It  can't  be 

305 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

that — no,  it's  plumb  impossible.     And  yet — I   don't  know 

!    Rum  things  are  men  and  women,  after  all!  " 

"  Anyway,"  he  concluded  as  he  wended  his  way  thought- 
fully back  to  the  B.  I.  P.,  "  I  shall  ask  Kate  about  it.  And 
anyway,  it  was  a  pity  that  I  didn't  get  a  chance  to  knock 
that  big  brown-faced  chap's  head  off — anyway  !  " 


306 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

"OH,  DEM   GOLDEN  SLIPPERS !" 

OT  yet  was  Billy  Earsman  a  complete  and 
seasoned  convert  to  the  gospel  of  peace.  But 
upon  occasion  his  hands  were  extremely 
ready  to  thrash  the  mountains,  and  very  con- 
vincingly to  argue  with  any  sons  of  Belial 
who  should  venture  to  molest  his  city  missionary.  As  yet, 
however,  his  virtues  were  mostly  of  the  Old  Testament  sort. 
Mrs.  Rodgers,  after  shaking  hands  with  Hearne,  went 
quickly  out,  and  called  Mr.  Molesay  to  admire  her  canary, 
which  was  the  pride  of  the  Cowgate  and  then  in  full  orange 
plumage. 

"  I  don't  believe,"  she  said,  "  that  you  could  have  man- 
aged to  get  out  of  that  room  except  for  me.     How  stupid 

you  men  are!  It  is  past  believing.   Now,  there's  Harry " 

And  Mr.  Molesay  spent  a  quarter  of  an  hour  over  the 
latest  iniquities  of  the  minister  of  the  Peden  Memorial — 
how  he  forgot  his  tall  hat  in  a  day  school,  and  had  it  brought 
back  by  a  hundred  and  fifty  of  the  senior  pupils,  who  scram- 
bled for  enough  of  the  brim  to  hold  a  finger  and  thumb 
upon,  and  gave  three  cheers  afterwards  on  the  pavement  in 
front  of  the  manse,  continuing  so  to  do  at  intervals  till  moved 
on  by  the  police.  Item,  how  he  always  lost  an  umbrella 
every  day  he  went  out  walking  with  one,  and  how  at  last 

307 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

she  got  his  parishioners  to  bring  them  back  by  painting  in 
large  red  letters  on  the  inside  between  each  rib,  "  Stolen  from 
the  Rev.  Harry  Rodgers,  Cowgate." 

"  It  takes  time,"  she  explained,  "  but  it  is  an  object  lesson 
that  honesty,  in  the  matter  of  a  3^.  ii</.  umbrella,  is  the  best 
policy !    It  is  worth  two  dozen  of  Harry's  sermons,  any  day !  " 

Meanwhile  in  the  minister's  study,  where  first,  amid  rows 
of  patristic  fathers  and  grim  Puritans  in  gigantic  folio,  we 
made  the  acquaintance  of  the  pastor  of  the  Peden  Memorial, 
Hearne  and  Patricia  met. 

They  could  only  clasp  hands  and  look  into  each  other's 
eyes.  No  more  was  needed.  For  the  bitterness  of  death  was 
past.  The  marah  taste  had  gone  from  the  fountain.  The 
waters  had  run  sweet  and,  save  for  the  memory  of  the  father 
yet  unavenged,  life  had  grown  natural.  Patricia  was  the 
old  Patricia  again.  This  was  by  no  means  the  hour  of  her 
weakness. 

"  I  will  kiss  you  once,  Hearne;  yes,  once,"  she  said;  "  and 
after  that,  we  will  hold  a  council  of  war.  Note  well,  all 
this  has  to  be  cleared  up.  We  are  responsible  for  that  boy 
— McGhie's  Kid,  who  recognized  his  stepfather's  knife — it 
really  turned  on  that.  Mr.  Molesay  knows  him.  He  is  a 
good  boy,  and  we  must  get  him  with  nice  people.  We  must 
educate  him,  you  and  I,  Hearne,  I've  been  thinking  of  it. 
It  will  take  some  time  to  get  him  off,  but  I've  been  to  the 
provost  and  to  the  chief  of  police.  The  sheriff  is  an  old 
lump  of  butter  who  takes  any  shape,  according  as  you  pat 
him.  I'll  pat  him  to  rights — I  have  not  been  at  the  business 
twenty  years  for  nothing." 

"  I  daresay  we  can  manage  it,"  said  Hearne  soberly.  "  I 
am  going  back  to  the  reformatory  to-morrow!  " 

"  You  are  going  to-day,"  cried  Pat  sharply.  "  I  am  not 
going  to  have  you  hanging  about  here,  with  Mrs.  Rodgers 

308 


"OH,    DEM    GOLDEN    SLIPPERS 


i  » 


running  to  get  her  husband  and  the  maid  out  of  the  way, 
lest  they  should  catch  us  kissing  behind  the  hall  door,  like 
an  under  cook  and  the  butcher's  boy.  No,  thank  you !  When 
I  want  you,  I'll  send  for  you.  So,  remember!  I'll  tell  you 
what  you  are  to  do.  Thank  Heaven,  there's  the  penny  post, 
and  I  won't  stint  you  in  stamps!  " 

"  I  should  like  one  now,"  said  Hearne  humbly,  "  just 
to  seal  the  bargain !  " 

"  Not  another,"  said  Patricia  determinedly.  "  Stamps, 
indeed.  I  thought  you  were  old  enough  to  know  better. 
I  am  not  Marthe  or  Baby  Lant,  who  would  mark  down  such 
things  in  a  notebook " 

"  But  the  other  day,"  began  Hearne  tentatively  and  in 
all  humility. 

"What  other  day?"  demanded  Pat  fiercely. 

"  The  day  you  came  to  the  cell  at  Ravensnuik  to  see 
me!"  said  Hearne  with  a  man's  invincible  stupidity,  "you 
gave  me " 

"  Well,  and  if  I  did,"  cried  Patricia,  "  it  was  only  because 
I  was  sorry  for  you.  And — and — oh,  that  I  should  have  to 
say  it ! — because  I  wanted  you  to  know  that  there  was  some- 
body who  believed  in  you — who  came  straight  to  you,  who 
loved  you — !     There — you — you  Man  !  " 

"  Thank  you,  Patricia,"  said  Hearne  brokenly.  "  I  am 
an  ass!  " 

"  As  I  remarked,  you  are  a  Man  ! "  retorted  Pat  Mc- 
Ghie.  "  There  is  nothing  stronger  to  be  said !  Now,  not  a 
word  more  about  it.  I  can't  stop  here  all  day  with  Mrs. 
Rodgers  thinking  us  clasped  in  each  other's  arms,  and  the 
maid  of  all  work  tacking  round  the  passages  trying  to  get 
a  chance  at  the  keyhole.  I  won't  have  it,  so  there!  You 
understand?  " 

Hearne  well  understood — however  sincerely  he  might 
309 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

have  regretted — that  Patricia  was  not  as  her  sisters  in  such 
matters  of  the  heart.     Pat  followed  his  reasoning. 

"  It's  no  use,"  she  said;  "  I'm  not  built  to  lovemake  for 
its  own  sake.  If  that's  what  you  want,  off  with  you  to  Baby 
Lant,  who  will  sit  and  purr  in  an  armchair  all  day,  and 
listen  to  you  talking  to  her  about  her  eyes.  Once  in  a  while, 
I  don't  mind — as  it  were,  on  the  way  to  what  we  mean  to 
be  together,  you  and  I,  Hearne!  I  can  take  such  things  flying, 
as  a  bird  on  the  wing  picks  a  grain  of  wheat  from  the  ground. 
But  to  waste  a  day  philandering — I  won't — for  you  or  any 
man!  I  don't  care  whether  my  eyes  are  gray  or  green  or 
blue  or  tricolor!  I  am  not  proud  of  my  profile.  The  shape 
of  my  nose  doesn't  interest  me  in  the  least,  so  long  as  I  have 
a  pocket  handkerchief  to  blow  it  with  when  I  have  a  cold. 
My  mouth,  in  spite  of  my  silliness  in  the  police  cell,  was 
made  for  eating  with.  Yes,  Mr.  Hearne,  it  was — and  I'll 
thank  you  to  bear  the  fact  in  mind.  If  you  don't  agree  to 
this,  off  to  Baby  Lant  with  you.  She  is  far  prettier  than  I 
am,  anyway,  and  I  have  always  told  you  so." 

Three  minutes  after  these  words  were  spoken,  the  door 
was  pushed  open  and  Baby  Lant  appeared.  She  had  come 
down  the  passage  with  the  cry  of  "  Where's  my  sister — I 
want  my  sister!  " 

Baby  Lant  stood  stock  still,  her  blue  eyes  big  like  saucers. 

Her  sister  was  kissing  the  dark  young  man  whom  she 
had  once  seen  at  Egham  Castle — or  t'other  way  about. 
Affairs  were  too  mixed  to  be  sure.     Besides,  she  was  excited. 

"Why,  Pat!  "  she  cried.  "  How  dare  you  not  tell  me. 
You  must  be  engaged !  You  were  letting  him  kiss  you — you 
were  kissing  him  yourself.    And — I  declare  you  are  crying!  " 

After  this,  alarms  and  excursions.  Exit  Hearne  without 
formal  adieux. 

310 


"OH,    DEM    GOLDEN    SLIPPERS!" 

"  And  you  bade  him  go  back  to  his  old  reformatory," 
cried  Baby  Lant  after  the  first  expansions  of  sisterly  affec- 
tion.    "You  did — after — what  I  saw?" 

"  I  was — only  telling  him — not  to!  " 

"  I  daresay!  "  said  Baby  Lant  dryly.  "  It  looked  like 
that !  No  wonder  he  was  discouraged,  poor  fellow !  You 
should  not  have  been  so  hard  with  him,  Pat." 

"  Well,  at  any  rate,"  said  Patricia,  "  I  made  him  go 
away — till  it  should  be  satisfactorily  proved  who  had  killed 
his  father." 

"  Well,  I  wouldn't,"  said  Baby  Lant;  "  not  for  packs  of 
fathers — living  ones — much  less  if  they  were  dead !  " 

"Baby  Lant,  you  should  not  speak  like  that!" 

Baby  Lant  clapped  her  hands. 

"  I  knew  it  would  come — I  was  sure  of  it!  "  she  cried. 
"  Whenever  a  girl  is  married,  like  Marthe.  Or  even  en- 
gaged, like  you " 

"  Who  said  I  was  engaged  ?  "  demanded  Patricia  haugh- 
tily, turning  her  nose  horizontal. 

"  Well,  if  you  are  not,  you  ought  to  be,"  said  Baby  Lant 
with  some  candor.  "  Don't  preach  to  me  any  more,  madam. 
Marthe  ladles  it  out  to  me  by  the  hour  about  my  behavior. 
And  yet  she  will  take  off  a  new  white  glove  so  as  to  walk 
home  with  her  hand  in  Willie's  pocket — yes,  and  she  makes 
him  take  off  his  mitten,  too.  Oh,  and  she  makes  him  wear 
knitted  wristbands — '  muffatees,'  as  you  remember  they  call 
them  in  Kirkmessan!  And  you,  Pat,  are  going  to  be  just 
as  bad !  Only  I  won't  stand  it  from  you,  Pat.  I  know  too 
much  of  your  ba-a-a-ad  past.  I'll  cast  it  up  to  you,  if 
you  talk  to  me  like  a  grandmother — worse,  I'll  peach  to 
him  I    Are  you  listening?" 

"  All  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter,  Baby  Lant," 
said  Patricia  with  the  grave  ease  which  all  unconsciously  she 

311 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

was  quickly  catching  from  her  lover.  "  I  told  him  that  I 
would  never  marry  him  till  it  was  proved  who  killed  his 
father." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Baby  Lant.  "  What  does  it  matter — 
he  didn't  do  it,  at  any  rate." 

"  Well,  he  was  suspected,"  said  Patricia.  "  And  he 
owes  it  to  his  father's  memory  to  find  out  his  murderer.  In 
any  case,  I'm  not  asking  you,  Baby  Lant.  I'm  telling  you — 
as  I  told  him." 

"  He  seemed  to  like  it,"  said  Baby  Lant  sneeringly. 
"  Curious,  that!  " 

"  You  see,"  said  Patricia,  without  heeding  Baby  Lant's 
flippancies,  "  Hearne  and  his  father  were  really  much  more 
to  each  other  than  one  reared  in  this  old  country  would 
have  supposed.  He  loved  his  father,  though  he  had  always 
supported  himself  since  before  he  went  to  college.  Then 
afterwards  he  wintered  in  logging  camps,  went  mining,  all 
on  his  own " 

"  Hook,  say  '  hook,'  Pat,  oh,  do!  "  cried  Baby  Lant.  "  It 
will  sound  more  like  old  times — before  you  knew  this  won- 
derful paragon  of  filial  devotion  and  correct  English !  When 
you  used  to  balance  yourself  on  two  chair  backs  with  your 
heels  on  the  mantelpiece!  " 

"  I  never  did!  "  cried  Patricia.  "  Baby  Lant,  where  do 
you  expect  to  go  to — telling  such  lies?" 

"  Why,  to  Canada,"  answered  Baby  Lant  promptly.  "  I 
shall  expect  to  go  there  the  first  winter  after  you  are  mar- 
ried. They  say  girls  have  rather  a  good  time  there,  and 
I  shan't  ever  let  on  that  I  can  skate  the  least  bit.  Instead, 
I  shall  pick  out  the  very  nicest  man  there  is  to  teach  me 
how!  Oooooooo-oop  !"  Baby  Lant  sucked  the  air  cres- 
cendowise  through  the  prettiest  pair  of  lips,  "  walled  "  her 
eyes   reverently   as   one    who   sees  a   vision,    and    then    de- 

312 


"OH,    DEM    GOLDEN    SLIPPERS!" 

scended  to  earth  again  with  the  reflection,  "  That  will  be 
ripping!  " 

"  You'll  have  to  behave  very  much  better,"  said  Pat 
gravely,  "  or  we  won't  have  you — my  husband  and  I." 

Baby  Lant  folded  her  hands  worshipfully,  and  intoned 
solemnly  after  her  sister,  "  '  My  husband  and  I  !  '  Oh,  rare 
Ben  Jonson!"  she  cried.  "Who  would  have  thought  it? 
Hath  it  come  to  this,  '  My  husband  and  II'" 

It  will  be  observed  that,  however  unable,  even  with  the 
advantage  of  her  new  dignities  to  restrain  the  eccentricities 
of  Baby  Lant,  Patricia  had  power  and  to  spare,  in  that  which 
concerned  Hearne  Mackenzie.  The  young  man  punctually 
obeyed  her  will,  and  presented  himself  next  morning  at  the 
"  Peat  "  by  the  first  train.  He  found  Carvel  busy  with  his 
reparations,  humming  like  a  bee  and — though  his  face  fell 
at  the  sight  of  the  young  man's  black  strip  of  crape  about  his 
arm,  he  had  the  good  taste  not  to  speak  of  his  recent  brief 
imprisonment. 

"  Hey,  glad  to  see  you — glad  to  see  you,"  he  cried  before 
they  could  shake  hands.  "  Come  to  take  hold,  eh  ?  Two 
posts  vacant — you  can  have  either!  Schoolmaster  and  assist- 
ant superintendent — you  can  take  your  choice.  Or,  for 
your  father's  sake,  I  will  step  down  and  you  shall  be  super- 
intendent and  I  assistant!  What  say  you?  We  are  poor, 
these  days.  And  I  don't  expect  to  touch  much  stipend  for 
a  year  or  two.     So  it  will  matter  the  less!  " 

Thus  Carvel,  and  Hearne,  clasping  his  friend's  hand  in 
his  strong  grip,  answered,  "  Thank  you,  superintendent !  But 
I  am  now  a  volunteer.  I  came  to  carry  out  what  I  am  sure 
would  have  been  my  father's  last  will,  had  time  been  given 
him  to  express  it.  I  will  build  the  burned  portions  of  the 
reformatory  as  a  memorial  to  Lord  Athabasca,  and — you 
can  draw  your  own  plans!  " 

21  313 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

Now  joy  affects  strong  men  more  than  grief.  They  are 
better  prepared  against  one  than  for  the  other.  They  hold 
themselves  together,  too  proud  to  show  emotion.  We  have 
seen  how  Carvel  took  the  attacks  of  Schoolmaster  Simeon 
Grainer.  But  at  Hearne's  words,  and  at  the  certainty 
that  all  his  poor  "makeshifts  were  unnecessary,  he  suddenly 
sobbed  out  with  that  quick  gulping  throat  catch,  like  the 
warning  of  an  old-fashioned  eight-day  clock  before  it 
strikes. 

"  Man — man !  "  he  said.  "  After  all  you  have  done 
for  us!  " 

"  All  the  more  reason,"  said  Hearne.  "  My  father  and 
I  did  not  agree  about  many  things,  but  we  were  quite  at  one 
upon  the  subject  of  the  '  Peat.'  " 

In  another  moment  Carvel  had  his  notebook  out,  and 
was  drawing  diagrams. 

1  The  schoolroom  will  come  so,"  he  said,  cocking  his 
head  to  the  side  admiringly;  "and  I've  long  thought  of 
having  the  dining  room  at  the  other  side,  quite  separate,  with 
a  covered  passage,  you  know.  The  boys  would  be  the  better 
of  a  walk — sort  of  grace  before  meat!  And  a  swimming 
bath ?" 

He  looked  anxiously  at  Hearne,  with  a  question  in  the 
clear,  piercing  eyes  of  the  born  enthusiast.  Carvel  was  any- 
thing but  calm  now. 

"Most  certainly  a  swimming  bath!"  smiled  Hearne, 
who  also  was  not  a  little  excited. 

"  And  a  little  reading  room  for  the  boys  to  sit  in  in  the 
evenings — nicely  ventilated  ?  " 

"Oh,  of  course,  a  reading  room!"  assented  Hearne. 

"With  a  small  library?" 

"  With  a  library,"  smiled  Hearne  watching  the  sparkle 
in  the  superintendent's  eyes. 

314 


"OH,    DEM    GOLDEN    SLIPPERS!" 

"  Books  that  a  boy  will  really  read,"  said  Carvel  as  if 
to  himself.    "  Not  dull  books  in  moral  covers?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Hearne  thinking  of  Patricia.  "  I  know 
who  will  see  after  that — good  stuff,  of  course,  but  well 
sugar-coated !  " 

"  Glory-hallelooo  !  "  cried  the  erstwhile  quiet  Carvel. 
And  leaping  up  from  the  pile  of  roofing  timber  on  which  he 
had  been  sitting,  he  danced  a  breakdown  in  full  view  of  his 
not  very  astonished  boys,  shuffling  his  old  down-at-heel  work- 
aday "  slops  "  of  green  carpeting  briskly  to  the  tune  of 

"  Oh,  dem  golden  slippers — oh,  dem  golden  slippers, 
Golden  slippers  I'm  goin'  to  wear, 
To  walk  on  dem  golden  streets  ! " 

Then  he  thrust  his  hand  through  Hearne's  arm  and  led  him 
off  "  to  see  his  new  system  of  sanitation,"  he  said — "  perfect 
as  human  skill  can  make  it,  my  dear  fellow — dear  to  my  heart 
as  my  good  old  lady  herself — almost,"  he  cried;  "and  I'm 
going  to  pay  for  it  out  of  my  own  pocket  as  an  extra — yes, 
I  am!" 

For  when  anyone  abused  Carvel  he  smiled  and  shrugged 
his  shoulders.  But  if  anyone  abused  his  precious  reformatory, 
or  ventured  to  hint  that  the  boys  therein  were  not  predestined 
cabinet  ministers  and  manifest  saints  of  the  calendar — then 
woe  betide  that  man! 


315 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

"can  a  mother  forget?" 

HE  Knifer  was  tried  for  his  crime — tried, 
found  guilty,  and  sentenced.  He  had  cer- 
tainly been  at  Three  Ridings,  with  two 
companions,  on  the  night  of  the  burning. 
So  much  was  proven.  They  had  known 
beforehand  that  the  house  would  most  likely  be  empty  or 
almost  empty  that  night.  Suspicion  lighted  naturally  on  a 
certain  Duffus,  not  in  custody.  But  the  Knifer,  when  asked 
at  his  private  examination  as  to  his  comrades  only  replied, 
"That  is  for  you  to  find  out!"  And  so  held  his  tongue. 
At  one  time  during  the  trial  it  seemed  that  the  Knifer 
must  get  off  after  all,  and  there  were  frequent  consultations 
between  the  fiscal,  the  crown  lawyers,  and  a  quiet  dark  man 
whom  we  have  previously  introduced  into  this  history  as 
Captain  Henderland,  chief  of  metropolitan  police.  Three 
times  the  lawyers  had  put  a  private  question  to  him,  and 
three  times  the  dark  man  had  shaken  his  head. 

"  Not  unless  it  cannot  possibly  be  avoided !  "  he  said. 
And  again  the  points  which  told  against  the  Knifer  were 
labored — his  silence,  his  admission  that  he  was  in  and  about 
the  house  of  Three  Ridings  with  other  companions,  at  least 
three  in  number,  for  the  purpose  of  committing  theft.  In- 
deed, the  burglars  had  collected  numerous  valuables  for  the 

316 


"CAN    A    MOTHER    FORGET?" 

purpose  of  carrying  them  off,  and  had  been  engaged  upon 
Lord  Athabasca's  strong  box — a  recent  type  strongly  built 
into  the  wall — when  they  had  been  disturbed,  apparently  by 
the  arrival  of  the  son  of  the  murdered  man,  Mr.  Hearne 
Mackenzie — who  was  now  complimented  on  the  clearness 
and  concision  with  which  he  gave  his  evidence.  The  days  of 
Sheriff  Peebles  were  already  far  off  in  a  dim  obscurity. 

"  Call  Alexander  McGhie  !  " 

At  the  back  of  the  justiciary  chamber  a  woman  cried  out 
suddenly.  Macers  moved  in  her  direction  in  a  dignified  and 
leisurely  manner.  But  instantly  she  was  silent  again.  The 
red  judge  looked  her  way  once,  and  with  a  slight  cough  the 
Knifer  settled  himself  more  doggedly  to  wait  the  issue. 

Then  the  Kid  came  in,  still  in  his  reformatory  Sunday 
suit,  with  the  close-fitting  cuffs  and  the  red  knitted  "  com- 
forter "  about  his  neck.  His  clean-cut  features  and  bright 
face  took  and  held  the  eyes  of  all. 

"You  are  this  man's  son?"  asked  the  crown  advocate, 
a  dapper  little  man  with  a  convenient  stammer,  which  could 
be  accentuated  when  he  wanted  a  laugh,  or  would  disappear 
altogether  at  the  serious  passages. 

"  He  married  my  mither!  "  said  the  Kid  simply. 

"And  who,  then,  was  your  father?" 

"  He  was  David  McGhie,  of  Back  Mill  Lands,  at  Kirk- 
messan,"  answered  the  boy. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  he  was  a  landed  proprietor?  " 
demanded  the  advocate  depute  forgetting  his  stammer,  and 
raising  his  large,  very  round  glasses  level  with  the  blunt  beak 
of  his  wig.  They  were  made  long  legged  on  purpose,  so 
that  he  could  fix  a  witness  at  a  distance. 

"  He  was  the  chief  of  the  Clan  McGhie,"  said  the  Kid 
simply.     "  Now — I'm  IT  !  " 

At  this  a  laugh  went  about  the  court.     But  Bitter  Little 
317 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

Airchie  Craw,  the  Kirkmessan  lawyer,  who  was  in  Edin- 
burgh on  business  connected  with  a  will,  and  liked  attending 
the  justiciary  courts  (for  practice  in  evil  speaking),  passed  a 
paper  up  to  the  crown  agent,  to  whom  he  was  well  known, 
having  formerly  spent  some  time  in  the  same  office. 

"  The  boy  tells  the  truth.  He  is  really  '  The  McGhie/ 
and  the  chief  of  the  clan.     A.  Craw,  Kirkmessan." 

The  city  lawyer  looked  over  his  shoulder  and  saw  the 
little  wizened  apple  of  Bitter  Airchie's  face,  nodding  at  him 
with  pleasurable  malice  in  every  wrinkle.  He  knew  Bitter 
Airchie's  capacities  as  a  genealogist.  He  was  also  aware 
that  he  did  not  tell  lies.  So  he  passed  the  document  up 
to  the  advocate  depute,  who  was  still  on  his  feet,  with  the 
scribbled  memorandum  "  that  after  all  there  seemed  to  be 
something  in  what  the  boy  said." 

"Ah!"  said  the  advocate,  stammering  now  very  much 
indeed,  "  so  you  are  a  chief,  and  a  holder  of  property — at 
least  your  father  was  ?  " 

"  It  never  did  me  ony  guid — bein'  a  chief,"  said  the  Kid; 
"  and  as  for  the  property,  I  think  the  lawyers  got  it!  " 

Which  again  in  its  turn  raised  a  laugh. 

Suddenly  the  Knifer's  weapon  was  handed  up  to  the 
Kid  by  an  officer  of  the  court. 

"You  have  already,  I  think,  recognized  that  weapon?" 
suggested  the  lawyer. 

The  boy  hesitated  and  looked  appealingly  about,  as  if 
to  ask  counsel  from  some  one. 

"  Come  now — no  hedging,  no  hesitation — yes  or  no!  " 

Still  the  Kid  stood  silent.  The  Knifer  had  been  good 
to  him  and 

"  Come,"  said  the  lawyer,  "  out  with  it.  You  told  Cap- 
318 


"CAN    A    MOTHER    FORGET?" 

tain  Henderland,  chief  of  police,  and  Mr.  Molesay,  city 
missionary,  that  the  knife  now  before  you  belonged  to  the 
prisoner,  the  man  called  Knifer  Jackson.  You  even  men- 
tioned the  number  of  nicks  or  marks  cut  on  the  bone  handle ! 
This  you  cannot  deny!  " 

The  Kid  looked  at  the  prisoner,  who  nodded  and  smiled, 
as  if  to  say,  "Tell  the  truth  and  shame  the  devil!" 

What  he  really  meant  to  say  was  that  the  game  was  up. 

"  It  is  his  knife,"  faltered  the  Kid  his  eyes  filling  with 
tears,  as  he  thought  of  the  trap  into  which  he  had  fallen. 

"Whose  knife?"  The  question  of  the  lawyer  cut 
sharply  now,  without  a  suspicion  of  stammer  in  his  voice. 

"  His  !  "  said  the  Kid  pointing  to  his  stepfather. 

The  woman's  scream  rose  again,  ending  in  loud  impre- 
cations. 

"If  he  were  ten  times  my  son,  I  would  kill  him  for 
that !  "  cried  the  voice. 

There  was  a  little  swift  disturbance  at  the  back  of  the 
court,  and  Mad  Mag — haggard,  furious,  muttering  vague 
threats — was  led  out  through  green  baize  doors  that  swung 
on  their  well-accustomed  hinges,  to  confront  with  her  tan- 
gled locks  and  blazing  eyes  that  curious  apathy  of  the 
hangers-on  about  the  doors  of  every  court  where  a  man  is 
on  trial  for  his  life. 

After  that  the  advocate  depute,  having  made  the  point, 
sat  down  with  a  confident  sigh,  and  though  the  Knifer's 
advocate,  in  his  young  enthusiasm,  touched  all  the  strings 
of  abuse  to  shake  the  Kid's  evidence — reformatory  boy,  in- 
grate,  revengeful,  and  so  forth — the  Kid's  obvious  reluc- 
tance, his  piteous  look  about  the  court,  and  perhaps  most 
of  all  the  prisoner's  nodded  acquiescence  in  the  recognition 
of  the  knife  with  which  the  deed  had  been  committed,  de- 
cided the  jury. 

319 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

Guilty,  then,  and  the  black  cap — an  old  cocked  hat 
smuggled  in  under  the  judge's  cloak — to  be  in  readiness!  It 
had  remained  hidden  under  the  bench  till  the  red  judge  be- 
gan the  highly  affecting  speech  in  which  the  Knifer  was 
informed  that  on  a  certain  not  distant  morning  he  should 
hang  by  the  neck  till  he  was  dead. 

To  this  the  Knifer  listened  in  silence.  He  had  nothing 
to  say.  He  shook  hands  with  the  advocate  who  had  de- 
fended him,  even  though  he  smiled  a  little  at  many  of  his 
boyish  outbursts  on  behalf  of  his  client.  But,  as  he  left 
the  court  in  charge  of  the  police,  he  called  out  certain 
words  which  were  not  intended  for  the  red  judge,  nor  for 
the  gowned  advocates,  nor  yet  for  the  respectable  curious  in 
the  galleries. 

"  The  Kid  is  not  to  be  marked,"  he  said.  "  He  could 
do  no  other! " 

This  was  for  the  scattered  members  of  "  Blind  Jacob's." 
Knifer  was  protecting  the  Kid  from  its  vengeance  to  the 
best  of  his  ability.  But  of  course  the  most  dangerous  of 
all  did  not  hear  him,  and  would  not  have  cared  if  she  had. 

Mad  Mag  believed  that  her  son  had  "  sold  "  her  husband 
to  death. 

•  •  •  •  • 

On  the  whole,  there  was  a  great  solid  middle-class 
contentment  throughout  the  city  when  the  case  was  over. 
The  law  folk  were  happy.  It  had  been  a  neat,  clean-lined 
case.  The  advocate  depute  had  not  jested  too  much,  but 
had  nipped  in  with  the  Kid's  evidence  at.  the  proper  mo- 
ment. Though  a  little  boyishly  eager,  the  counsel  for  the 
defense  had  done  very  well.     There  was  stuff  in  him. 

Even  "  Blind  Jacob's  "  was  satisfied.  The  Knifer  had 
behaved  like  a  man  and  a  true  "  sport."  There  never  was 
any  doubt  about  the  Knifer,  but  still  it  was  a  comfort  to 

320 


"CAN    A    MOTHER    FORGET?" 

find  a  man,  in  such  utter  straits,  acting  well  up  to  his  repu- 
tation, taking  and  asking  no  favors.  He  had  not  blustered. 
He  had  not  spouted.  He  had  not  shown  off  in  any  way, 
and  his  final  appeal  that  the  Kid  might  not  be  held  respon- 
sible roused  a  kindly  smile. 

"  He  always  was  soft  about  that  dratted  Kid,"  growled 
Corn  Beef  Jo.  "  I  never  seen  anything  extra  about  the 
loon  myself — a  regular  potted  head  of  a  Kid — young  Duffus 
was  worth  twenty  of  him !  " 

And  so  the  Knifer,  with  the  prospect  before  him  of 
making  a  fitting  end,  found  even  his  amiable  weaknesses 
arise  to  call  him  blessed.     So  be  it  with  us  all! 

And  the  good  folk  of  the  city,  pulling  on  their  night- 
caps, and  trying  to  remember  if  they  had  hasped  all  the 
windows  and  barred  the  doors,  sighed  comfortably  and 
said,  as  they  turned  in,  "  Well,  it's  a  good  thing  that 
fellow  is  laid  by  the  heels — that's  one  less,  at  ony  rate!" 

And  in  his  exceedingly  sanitary  condemned  cell,  the 
Knifer  composed  himself  to  sleep,  with  the  philosophic 
reflection  that  it  was  sure  to  come  to  this  in  the  long  run. 

As  for  Mr.  Archbold  Molesay,  a  great  sadness  over- 
powered him.  In  his  time  he  had  drafted  a  great  many 
"  lost  sheep  "  into  his  flock.  But  on  the  whole  the  Knifer 
was  the  most  entirely  lost  of  any  he  knew — and  yet,  some- 
how, he  had  not  despaired  even  of  the  Knifer.  He  betook 
himself  up  to  Calton,  where  he  was  informed  that  the  lately 
condemned  was  asleep.  So  he  came  away  disconsolate, 
and  wandered  up  and  down  the  Portobello  Road  till  the 
dawning. 

Archbold  Molesay  was  the  sort  of  man  who  would 
never  have  been  long  happy  in  heaven.  He  would  cer- 
tainly have  asked  his  way  down  to  the  portal  of  hell,  and 
if  refused  admission  there,  he  would  have  wandered  about 

321 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

disconsolate,  even  as  now,  wanting  to  get  in,  to  see  if,  per- 
chance, "  he  might  do  them  any  good." 

Consequently  he  was  the  man  to  whom  a  woman,  pale, 
disheveled,  half-clad,  bareheaded,  and  wholly  dazed,  sud- 
denly appeared  and  propounded  a  question. 

"  Is  this  the  road  to  the  '  Peat '  Reformatory  for  lad- 
dies?" She  had  asked  him  because  he  did  not  look  like 
a  policeman,  and  then,  suddenly  recognizing  Mr.  Molesay, 
she  struck  at  the  hand  which  tried  to  detain  her,  and  fled 
precipitately  down  the  dark,  winding  path  back  again  into 
the  city.  But  Mr.  Molesay  remembered  the  scene  in  the 
court  that  day  and  was  advised.  But  even  then  he  had  no 
idea  of  the  terrible  concreteness  of  Mad  Mag's  intentions 
with  regard  to  her  son.  He  thought  only  that  Mag  was 
again  on  the  spree.  There  had  never  been  much  to  hope 
for  from  Mag — indeed,  apart  from  the  Knifer,  nothing. 

The  silver-headed  little  man  with  the  weak  heart,  who 
had  to  stop  several  times  before  he  got  to  the  seventh  floor 
of  a  "  land,"  had  not  been  asleep  for  well-nigh  thirty  hours, 
but  he  had  no  thought  of  his  own  needs  now.  He  forgot 
all  about  breakfast,  though  he  could  smell  "  kippers  "  in 
the  very  air  of  the  narrow  Cowgate.  He  betook  him  to 
the  neat  first-floor  dwelling  of  Kate  and  Billy  Earsman. 
Billy  had  his  head  and  the  upper  part  of  his  person  in  a 
tub,  and  at  the  sound  of  the  opening  door  he  arose,  ex- 
tremely soapsudsy.  Then  he  danced  round,  demanding  a 
towel  to  take  that  three-times  blessed  soap  out  of  his  eyes. 
When  his  laughing  wife  could  recover  herself  enough  to 
hand  it  to  him,  he  scrubbed  so  furiously  that  the  mere  fric- 
tion would  have  sufficed  for  a  crocodile  taking  a  Turkish 
bath.  This  operation  he  mingled  with  exclamations  against 
the  perfidy  of  Kate,  who  knew  that  soft  soap  applied  to 
the  eyeball  bit  like  fun.     Her  conduct  was  specially  heinous 

322 


"CAN    A    MOTHER    FORGET?" 

in  view  of  the  fact  that  he  had  risen  early  that  morning  for 
the  express  purpose  of  taking  down  her  stovepipe,  at  the 
bend  of  which  a  large  amount  of  soot  had  collected. 

Here,  then,  was  ingratitude  for  you.  And  she  could 
find  nothing  better  to  do  than,  when  her  husband  was  danc- 
ing about  in  pain,  to  stand  with  the  towel  in  her  hand,  held 
well  behind  her,  and  laugh!  Talk  of  cruelty  to  animals, 
indeed.  It  was  enough  to  keep  any  thoughtful  man  from 
getting  married.  In  the  intervals  of  this  harangue  Billy's 
face  and  neck,  red  as  a  beet  root,  kept  appearing  and  disap- 
pearing in  the  towel. 

Mr.  Molesay  presently  edged  in  a  question. 

"'Can  Ogg  do  without  me  to-day?'"  repeated  Billy. 
"  He  will  have  to,  if  you  want  me,  that's  flat!  Kate  there 
can  go  along  and  break  it  to  him.  What  time  shall  we  be 
back?  Can't  say — well,  all  the  better — give  him  the  longer 
spell.  Ogg's  getting  too  fat!  And  this  is  Friday,  too,  and 
the  fortnightly  pay  of  those  Waterworks'  Irishmen!" 

And  Billy  laughed. 

"  There,"  said  Kate,  "  now  you  are  laughing  at  the 
thought  of  Ogg  getting  the  soap  in  his  eyes!  " 

But  Billy  was  not  quick  at  this  sort  of  thing. 

He  answered  shortly,  "  Oh,  no — it  was  his  having  all 
those  Irishmen — the  water-trust  navvies,  that  is — to  keep 
in  order!  That's  what  I  was  laughing  at.  Nothing  to  do 
with  soap  at  all !  " 

Kate  glanced  at  Mr.  Molesay,  but  the  little  man  was 
much  too  intent  on  his  business  to  think  of  jesting. 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  somberly,  "  it's  that  Mad  Mag. 
She's  off  to  kill  her  boy — McGhie's  Kid.  You  know  him. 
He's  at  the  '  Peat.'  She  will  find  the  road  and  walk  the 
twelve  miles  by  mid-afternoon.  She  will  ask  to  see  him. 
It  is  visiting  day,  and  Carvel,  the  superintendent,  will  know 

323 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

no   reason   why   she   should   not   see   the   boy.      Then   she 
— well,  you  know  very  well  what  she  will  do!  " 

"  She  would  never  do  the  like  to  her  ain  son?  Never! 
Oh,  never!"  cried  Kate  Earsman,  who  thought  of  little 
Polly.     Her  husband  knew  better. 

"  She  will  kill  him  like  a  rat,  I  tell  ye,  for  putting 
away  the  Knifer!  "  he  said.  "  He  mastered  her,  did  Knifer 
Jackson.  And  because  o'  that — she  was  juist  terrible  set 
on  the  Knifer!  " 

The  two  men  took  council  together. 

It  seemed  good  to  them  to  take  the  train  to  Kingside 
Station,  and  while  one  of  them — Mr.  Molesay  for  choice — 
hurried  along  to  warn  Carvel  of  Mad  Mag's  intentions 
as  to  his  favorite  pupil,  the  other  was  to  keep  a  keen  watch 
for  the  approach  of  the  Kid's  mother. 

There  was  yet  a  full  hour,  however,  before  the  train 
would  leave.  It  was  a  fast  through  train,  stopping  only 
once  before  it  reached  the  little  moorland  station  of  King- 
side,  but  there  was  nothing  in  Edinburgh  capable  of  putting 
them  on  the  spot  any  sooner. 

It  was  at  this  juncture  that  Mr.  Molesay,  blushing 
slightly,  remarked  that  he  was  compelled  to  look  in  and 
make  some  final  arrangements  for  Sunday  night's  meet- 
ing with  the  Rev.  Harry  Rodgers. 

As  he  went  hurriedly  out,  Kate  smiled  knowingly  at 
Billy,  who  gazed  blankly  back. 

"  What  do  ye  make  o'  that?  "  said  Kate  looking  steadily 
at  her  husband  as  if  to  compel  the  exercise  of  intelligence. 

"  Make  o't?  "  said  Billy  scratching  his  great  fuzz  of  hair. 
"  That — that  Maister  Molesay 's  busy,  of  course !  What 
else?" 

Kate  shoved  her  little  head  against  his  shoulder.  Then 
she  whispered: 

324 


"CAN    A    MOTHER    FORGET?" 

"  Before  we  were  married,  Billy,  when  you  had  half 
an  hour  to  yoursel',  where  did  ye  gang?  " 

"  Why,"  said  Billy  simply,  "  up  to  Gape  and  Suck's  to 
see  you,  of  course — where  else?  " 

That  was  an  easy  question  easily  answered.  Kate's 
head  continued  to  root  in  the  tangle  and  underbrush  about 
Billy's  right  ear. 

"  You  old  silly,"  she  murmured  softly.  Then  after  a 
pause  she  added,  "  Do  you  think  you  are  the  only  man  that 
ever  was  in  love?  " 

"You  don't  think  that  Mr.  Molesay — at  his  age?" 

Kate  nodded  rapidly  three  or  four  times. 

"  As  if  age  mattered — in  a  man !  "  said  Kate  with  the 
certainty  of  an  expert. 

"  It  will  be  the  young  leddy  he  fetched  away  from  the 
castle,"  ventured  Billy;  "the  lass  that  wadna  marry  the 
auld  lord — him  that  Knifer  is  to  be  hanged  for?" 

"  Wha  else?"  said  his  wife.  "Oh,  you  silly!  You 
are  going  out  there  to  play  gooseberry.  She  and  her  sister 
have  gone  to  Egham  Castle.  Mrs.  Rodgers  told  me  when 
she  was  lookin'  oot  the  music  at  the  organ  before  the  prac- 
tice last  nicht,  Billy.  So  he'll  maybe  see  her  after  a' !  Run 
awa',  Billy,  and  see  ye  bring  him  back  safe.  I'm  off  to  break 
the  news  to  Ogg!  " 

Kate  was  lacing  her  boots  as  she  spoke,  with  a  quick 
whip-whip  of  drilled  fingers  accustomed  to  do  little  things 
in  the  least  possible  time. 

It  was  true.  Mrs.  Rodgers  smiled  in  Mr.  Molesay 's 
face  when  he  inquired  for  her  husband,  and  remarked  that 
Harry  was  at  the  meeting  of  Presbytery — as  Mr.  Molesay 
knew  just  as  well  as  she  did  herself.  Then  she  said  that, 
for  what  he  came  about,  she  could  give  him  just  as  reliable 
information  as  Mr.  Rodgers  himself,  in  fact,  slightly  more  so. 

325 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

Mr.  Molesay  flushed  crimson  to  the  roots  of  his  shining 
silver  hair. 

"  I  thought  I  would  also  ask  after  Miss  Patricia," 
he  said.  "  I  heard  that  her  sister  had  come  from  the  South 
to  visit  her — a  very  merry  young  lady,  I  am  given  to  under- 
stand." 

"  The  two  have  gone  off  together,"  said  Mrs.  Rodgers, 
"  back  to  Egham  Castle.  Their  uncle  wants  to  forgive  and 
forget,  it  seems.  And  I  fear  there  is  but  little  chance  of 
our  seeing  Patricia  back  among  us  again." 

The  flush  on  Mr.  Molesay 's  cheek  paled  slowly,  and 
then  reaffirmed  itself  as  a  thought  crossed  his  mind. 

"  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Rodgers,"  he  said.  "  Now  I  must 
go — I  have  an  appointment !  " 

"  And  do  you  know,"  said  Mrs.  Rodgers  to  her  hus- 
band as  she  poured  out  the  tea,  "  the  man  actually  went 
away  fumbling  the  leaves  of  a  little  Murray's  time-table. 
I  do  think  men  in  love  are  the  greatest  ostriches!  They 
think  other  people  have  no  eyes.  And  when  it  is  all  no  use 
— and  he  knows  it  is  no  use.  Oh,  I  have  no  patience  with 
you !  " 

"  If  Mrs.  Henry  Rodgers  will  kindly  explain  what  I, 
personally,  have  to  do  with  the  love  affairs  of  Mr.  Archbold 
Molesay — "  began  her  husband  oracularly. 

"Tut!"  snapped  his  wife.  "I  suppose  it  is  thought 
very  clever — at  clerical  clubs — that  kind  of  about-the-bush 
talk.  But  pray  keep  it  for  your  Monday  afternoons. 
It  is  wasted  on  me.  Why  don't  you  speak  to  Mr. 
Molesay?" 

"Speak  to  Molesay?"  said  her  husband  dimly  and 
vaguely  searching  for  a  solution.  "  Why  in  the  world 
should  I  speak  to  Molesay?     He  is  a  good  ten  years  older 

326 


"CAN    A    MOTHER    FORGET?" 

than  I  am.     If  you  are  so  anxious,  and  so  well  informed, 
speak  to  him  yourself.     Where's  my  study  coat?" 

Meantime  the  through  train  delivered  Mr.  Molesay  and 
Billy  duly  at  Kingside  Station.  The  station  master,  a 
brusque  little  snip-snappy  man,  much  imbued  with  the  dig- 
nities of  his  office,  called  out  to  them  to  cross  the  line  by  the 
overhead  bridge,  and  to  remember  that  their  tickets  (return) 
were  good  only  for  the  week  end.  Then  very  reluctantly, 
not  finding  anything  else  against  them,  he  let  them  pass 
through  the  white  gate,  and  so  down  upon  the  face  of  the 
moor. 

Egham  lay  dimly  away  to  the  right,  hidden  among  trees, 
and  high  behind  tall  park  walls.  Right  in  front  were  the 
buildings  of  the  "  Peat,"  with  all  the  black  debris  of  the 
fire  already  cleared  away,  and  the  foundations  of  the  new 
and  enlarged  "  Athabasca "  roughly  sketched  in  concrete 
foundations  and  the  beginnings  of  masonry. 

Billy,  now  well  informed  and  highly  suspicious,  ob- 
served, with  pride  in  his  wife's  acuteness,  that  Mr.  Mole- 
say  looked  long  and  wistfully  in  the  direction  of  the  green 
policies  of  Egham,  before  turning  his  face  resolutely  toward 
the  bare  but  healthy  quadrangles  of  the  "  Peat." 

"It's  her  he's  thinkin'  aboot!"  murmured  Billy  to 
himself. 

Thus  the  world  knew  more  about  the  love  affairs  of 
Mr.  Archbold  Molesay  than  that  innocent  little  gentleman 
himself. 

In  one  way  they  came  too  late  to  the  "  Peat  " — in  an- 
other too  early.  Mad  Mag  had  not  arrived.  But  the 
"  Kid  " — interest  having  been  made  for  him  in  the  highest 
quarters — had  recently  been  allowed  privileges.  He  had 
departed   in  company  with  the  two   Egham  Castle  young 

327 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

ladies,  who  had  taken  him  across  the  moor  for  the  purpose 
of  helping  them  to  carry  their  photographing  and  sketching 
apparatus. 

This  was  Patricia's  idea,  and  she  had  expressed  it  in 
such  absolute  terms  to  Mr.  Hearne,  that  it  became  neces- 
sary for  that  man-under-authority  to  obtain  for  the  Kid 
the  necessary  relaxation  of  discipline,  prior  to  the  issue  of 
home  office  papers  of  complete  discharge  on  the  grounds  of 
innocence  and  additional  evidence. 

"  Poor  boy,  he  has  never  had  a  chance,  Hearne,"  Pat 
had  said ;  "  and  if  he  is  to  stay  with  Marthe  and  Willie, 
he  will  be  brought  up  as  an  educated  man.  He  is  a  gen- 
tleman already.  My  old  dad  would  give  him  many  messes 
of  pottage  for  his  birthright.  But  that  affair  in  the  court,  and 
the  publication  of  the  report  in  the  papers,  rather  knocked 
the  feet  from  under  the  dad's  pedigree  business.  And  a  good 
job,  too.  Still,  if  we  have  the  chief  of  our  name  upon  our 
hands,  we  must  teach  him  how  to  walk  and  talk  and  behave. 
You  do  very  well  in  your  '  Peat,'  but,  after  all,  there  are 
some  things  you  are  deficient  in !  " 

"  Happy  Kid !  "  said  Hearne  sighing  pretentiously.  "  I 
offer  myself  as  an  additonal  subject — half-savage,  half- 
colonial!     What  could  you  wish  for  more?" 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  Pat.  "  Remember  our  compact. 
You  go  on  with  your  hedging-and-ditching,  your  brick-and- 
mortaring,  your  saw-pitting  and  plan-drawing  till  you  are  as 
poor  as  a  church  mouse  for  the  second  time.  Then  you 
can  marry  Baby  Lant  and  live  happily  ever  after.  She 
is  to  be  the  heiress  now,  you  know.  My  nose  is  out  of 
joint!" 

"  Baby  Lant,  indeed !  "  exclaimed  that  young  lady  dash- 
ing fiercely  into  the  conversation.  "  When  Baby  Lant  is 
in  need  of  your  leavings,  Miss  ex-Heiress  Patricia,  she  will 

328 


"CAN    A    MOTHER    FORGET?" 

let  you  know.  And  as  to  being  an  heiress,  Baby  Lant  never 
saw  the  man  she  would  shake  a  stick  at,  when  she  had  not 
so  much  as  tuppens-farthing  to  her  name.  And  if  the  heiress- 
hip — if  it  really  comes  off — makes  any  difference,  call  her 
.brew  Jew,  call  her  Yellow  Peril,  call  her  Ching-Chang- 
Fu  with  his  pigtail  on !  " 

Her  mood  was  so  fierce  that  Hearne  hastened  to  assure 
her  that,  so  far  as  he  was  personally  concerned,  he  would 
not  dream  of  calling  her  any  of  these  things. 

On  the  present  occasion  the  two  enterprising  young 
women  took  the  Kid  to  carry  their  paraphernalia,  for  the 
purpose  of  educating  him  in  the  suavities  of  the  English  lan- 
guage as  professed  by  Pat  McGhie  and  her  sister,  Baby 
Lant. 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  Baby  Lant's  Athenian  pre- 
dilection for  telling  and  hearing  some  new  thing  defeated 
the  strategy  of  that  strong  man  Billy  Earsman,  that  care- 
ful man  Archbold  Molesay — not  to  speak  of  Hearne  Mac- 
kenzie and  a  good  half  score  of  warders  whom  Carvel  had 
bidden  to  be  on  the  lookout  for  Mad  Mag  coming  along 
the  Edinburgh  Road. 

It  was  at  the  place  called  the  One  Thorn  Tree  that 
it  happened.  This  ancient  growth  overhung  the  deep  gorge 
which  divided  the  plateau  of  Maw  Moss  from  the  Three 
Ridings  Valley,  and  Patricia  thought  she  could  make  a  good 
photograph  of  the  low,  twisted  branches,  using  the  distant 
wood  as  a  background.  While  Baby  Lant,  more  optimistic, 
talked  of  the  picture  she  was  going  to  paint — "  something 
weird  and  uncommon,  with  the  branches  bending  their  heads 
like  snakes  about  to  strike,  and  the  boughs  like  the  fingers 
of  a  witch's  hand  upraised  in  cursing — all  against  a  stormy 
'  King  Lear  sky  ' !  And,  oh,"  she  concluded,  "  I  shall  use 
23  329 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

such  a  lot  of  rose  madder  and  terra-verte  for  the  grays! 
I'm  afraid  I  have  not  brought  enough!  Perhaps  the  Kid 
would  not  mind*  going  back  to  the  castle  and  asking  William 
for  them — they  are  in  tubes,  right  in  the  middle  of  my  dress- 
ing table,  among  the  combs  and  brushes!     The  usual  place." 

"  Baby  Lant,  you  should  be  ashamed  of  yourself!  "  said 
Pat. 

"  And  I  prithee,  why — give  me  a  reason  why  I  should 
be  ashamed  of  myself  on  so  fine  a  day!"  demanded  Baby 
Lant. 

"  If  reasons  were  as  plentiful  as  blackberries,"  cried  Pat, 
"  would  a  true  woman  give  her  young  sister,  a  mere  child, 
a  reason  upon  compulsion  ?  " 

"  Ah,  that's  better — that's  more  like  our  old  Pat  before 
she  went  and  fell  in  love!"  said  Baby  Lant;  "and  as  to 
leaving  paints  and  things  about  among  my  brushes,  my  hair 
is  such  a  very  unfashionable  color  that  every  little  helps. 
I  always  clean  my  brushes  on  it — but  you  mustn't  tell  any- 
body. It's  a  recipe.  I  may  make  my  fortune  out  of  it  some 
day,  when  I  can  no  longer  support  myself  in  any  other 
honest  way!  " 

"  I  wonder  if  you  will  never  be  serious,  Baby  Lant," 
said  Patricia  with  a  world-weary  sigh,  as  she  watched  the 
Kid's  straight  little  back  dodging  about  among  the  green 
marsh  pools  and  crisscross  peat  hags  between  them  and 
Egham. 

The  easel  of  Baby  Lant  was  by  this  time  camped  in  front 
of  the  One  Thorn  Tree,  and,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  a 
heaven  without  a  cloud  and  as  blue  as  her  eyes,  she  began 
to  sketch  in  her  stormy  sky. 

"  Me  an'  Turner — he's  dead  now,  but  was  a  cele- 
brated painter  in  Mr.  Ruskin's  day — we  think  alike," 
affirmed  Baby  Lant.     "  We  always  look  at  one  scene  and 

330 


"CAN    A    MOTHER    FORGET?" 

draw  another.  He  could  help  it.  I  can't!  But  that's  not 
what  I  was  going  to  say.  What  was  it?  Oh,  yes,  it  was 
about  you,  Patricia!  I  wonder  if  it's  like  that  with  all  girls. 
Before  you  knew  him — you  held  your  head  up  and  '  looked 
the  whole  world  in  the  face,  for  you  owed  not  any  man  ' — 
that  sort  o'  expression.  But  now,  instead  of  cheeking  the 
universe,  and  not  being  too  respectful  even  to  the  milky 
way — you  go  about  as  croaky  and  droopy  as  an  old  crow 
with  a  broken  wing.  Poor  Pat!  I  knew  her,  Horatio,  a 
fellow  of  infinite  jest,  of  most  excellent  fancy.  Where  be 
her  jibes  now?  Her  gambols?  Her  flashes  of  merriment 
that  were  wont  to  set  the  schoolroom  fire  irons  in  a  roar?  " 

"  You  don't  know  anything  about  it  yet,  Baby  Lant," 
said  Patricia  loftily,  "  but  some  day  you  will,  when  the  right 
man  comes  along!  " 

She  thought  a  little,  her  eyes  on  the  blue  of  the  distant 
hills. 

"  Yes,  it  will  come  to  you,  Baby,"  she  said  softly. 

"  Faith,"  cried  Atalanta  scornfully,  "  and  I  hope  it  will 
do  me  the  favor  not  to  be  in  a  hurry,  then,  if  it  is  all  '  virgin 
rites  and  strewments,  and  bringings  home  with  bell  and  book 
and  candle!'  Hence,  loathed  Melancholy,  and  Chaos,  and 
Old  Nick — forsake  your  temples  dim,  Peor  and  Balaam !  " 

Baby  Lant,  in  her  solitude,  had  been  doing  some  good 
reading,  but  it  had  somehow  got  a  little  mixed  in  that  bright 
rippling  head  of  hers.  The  result  was  not  always  entirely 
respectful.  All  the  same,  her  laugh  was  sunshiny  to  hear. 
It  certainly  did  her  sister  Pat  good,  and  perhaps  was  de- 
signed for  that  purpose. 

Meanwhile  the  Kid  proceeded  on  his  way,  whistling 
happily.  The  world  was  beginning  anew  for  him.  He  was 
now  out  most  of  the  day — in  the  fields  with  Mr.  Hearne, 
or  with   Mrs.  Carvel,   attending  to  the   fowls  in   the  hen 

331 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

runs.  And  the  ladies — the  young  ladies  were  taking  quite 
a  wonderful  interest  in  him.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life 
Kid  McGhie  was  not  being  harried  from  post  to  pillar. 

About  midway  between  the  "  Peat  "  and  Egham  Castle 
the  Kid  had  occasion  to  cross  the  road.  In  the  ditch  a 
woman  was  lying,  her  knees  drawn  up,  her  chin  sunk  on  her 
breast.  Her  eyes  were  open,  but  there  was  a  ghastly  ex- 
pression in  them — something  wild,  strange,  not  of  this  earth. 

"  Mother!  "  cried  the  Kid,  instantly  running  toward  her. 

She  seemed  to  hear  and  yet  not  hear.  As  he  bent  over 
her  the  pupils  of  her  eyes  dilated,  flashed  wickedly,  and  then 
narrowed  to  a  tiny  slit. 

"What  is  it,  mother?"  cried  the  Kid.  "Tell  me. 
What  has  happened  ?    Were  you  coming  to  see  me  ?  " 

The  pale,  drawn  face  twitched,  the  head  nodded,  and 
in  the  beckoning  eyebrows  the  Kid  read  a  desire  that  he 
should  come  nearer. 

"You  want  me  to  lift  you  up,  mother?"  said  the  Kid 
anxiously. 

Mad  Mag  nodded  again,  a  little  more  decidedly.  Her 
lips  formed  some  words  that  the  Kid  did  not  hear.  He  ap- 
proached, and  was  just  about  to  take  his  mother  in  his  arms, 
when,  like  flame  bursting  through  smoke,  something  flashed 
from  under  her  checked  apron.  Luckily  for  the  Kid,  and 
for  the  rest  of  the  story,  he  was  stooping  low  at  that  mo- 
ment, and  the  half-paralyzed  arm,  making  its  last  effort, 
struck  high.  The  blade  of  the  knife  cut  through  the  thick 
collar  of  his  official  coat,  passed  beyond,  and  fell  on  the 
road  with  a  hard  jangle  on  the  newly  broken  and  still  un- 
rolled macadam.  The  next  moment  Hearne  Mackenzie, 
more  active  than  the  others,  pulled  the  Kid  behind  him, 
while  from  different  sides  Mr.  Molesay,  Billy  Earsman, 
Patricia,  and  Baby  Lant  converged  upon  the  scene. 

332 


The    next   moment   Hearne   Mackenzie   .   .    .   pulled    the    k.id 
behind    him." 


"CAN    A    MOTHER    FORGET?" 

Mad  Mag  had  recovered  her  tongue  now.  But  she 
tried  in  vain  to  reach  the  fallen  weapon. 

"I'll  kill  him — kill  him — kill  him!"  she  sputtered. 
"Kill  him  for  what  he  did  to  Knifer!  " 

The  words  were  thickly  uttered,  indistinct,  but  Hearne 
Mackenzie  understood  them. 

"  He  is  your  own  son!  "  he  said,  as  he  easily  controlled 
her  arms  with  his  brown  masculine  grasp. 

"  My  son — David  McGhie's  son,  ye  mean !  Never  son 
o'  mine,"  she  cried.  "  He  gied  Knifer  Jackson,  the  only 
man  i'  the  world,  up  to  the  clutches  o'  the  hangman.  I  wad 
hang  for  him,  aye,  brave  an'  willin' — if  only  my  arm  had 
done  its  duty!  And  the  Knifer's  an  innocent  man — I  tell 
ye  sae  mysel' !  Wherefore  should  I  lie,  a  dying  woman  ?  He 
was  the  ae  true  man,  and  that  gorb  selled  him  awa'.  Oh, 
let  me  get  at  him,  juist  for  yince,  kind  gentlemen !  " 

Before  Patricia  and  Baby  Lant,  who  had  the  rougher 
road  to  travel,  had  time  to  arrive,  Billy  had  secured  the 
knife,  which  lay  glittering  on  the  clean  stones  of  the  high- 
way. It  was  new  and  had  been  bought  on  purpose.  He 
concealed  it,  and  then  began  to  stroll  about  in  an  unin- 
terested fashion.  For,  just  when  the  girls  came  up,  a  spasm 
of  pain  traversed  the  body  of  Mad  Mag.  She  seemed  to 
sink  into  herself. 

"  Take  away  the  boy,"  said  Mr.  Molesay  to  Hearne, 
without  noticing  Patricia  and  Baby  Lant,  who  were  still 
a  little  behind  the  heathery  ridge,  which  made  the  only 
fence  of  the  moorland  roadside.  "  Take  the  boy — this  is 
my  work !  " 

He  took  off  his  hat,  and  the  mellow  light  fell  mildly  on 
his  silver  head.  To  that  poor  sinful  woman  he  spoke  as  if 
he  had  been  the  very  Son  of  Man  himself,  turned  aside  a 
little  from  the  wayside  to  rest  by  Jacob's  Well.     What  he 

333 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

said  is  between  him  and  the  woman  taken  in  sin.  Mr. 
Molesay  had  a  sprinkling  of  physic,  and  at  the  first  glance 
he  saw  that  all  was  over. 

Those  who  stood  afar  off  in  wonder — Hearne  and  the 
Kid,  Patricia  and  Baby  Lant — looked  at  this  scene  of  the 
faithful  shepherd  dealing  with  this  very  far-strayed  sheep  of 
his  flock.  They  heard  fragments  of  sentences:  "  Ask,  and  it 
shall  be  given !  "  "  Knock,  and  it  shall  be  opened."  "  In 
my  Father's  house " 

But  still  the  woman  turned  her  head  from  side  to  side 
and  moaned  uncomforted. 

"  Oh,  if  I  kenned  that  they  wadna  hang  Knifer — my 
ain  man,  Knifer  Jackson,  I  wad  be  content  to  dee  and  gang 
to  the  111  Bit!" 

Then  a  wild,  strange  thought  seemed  to  launch  itself 
across  her  drink-sodden,  ignorant  brain. 

"  Bear  witness,"  she  cried,  "  you,  Mr.  Molesay,  that 
are  a  godly  man  and  respected  even  by  the  poliss — you, 
Mr.  Hearne  Mackenzie,  I  ken  ye,  I  saw  ye  at  the  trial 
when  they  condemned  him — you,  young  leddies — that's  four 
witnesses.  I  hae  four  witnesses  and  only  three  are  needed. 
Tak'  oot  your  book  and  write,  Mr.  Molesay!  Then  I'll 
sign,  as  the  law  requires!  " 

This  was  Mad  Mag's  confession: 

"  As  I,  Margaret  Jackson,  or  McGhie,  or  Caigton,  am 
a  dyin'  woman — as  I,  Margaret,  wife  of  said  Knifer  Jack- 
son, presently  lying  in  the  Calton  under  sentence  o'  death, 
for  what  he  never  did,  hope  for  salvation,  it  wasna  him  that 
killed  your  faither,  Lord  Athabasca,  at  the  muckle  hoose 
caa'ed  the  Three  Ridings.  77  was  me.  I  killed  him  wi'  my 
ain  man's  knife.  I  was  there  helping  him !  I  swear  to  this 
wi'  my  dyin'  breath,  and  may  I  never  taste  God's  mercy  if 
I  speak  a  lie!  " 


"CAN    A    MOTHER    FORGET?" 

And  so,  with  this  great  oath  on  her  lips,  the  spirit  parted, 
almost  before  Hearne  Mackenzie  had  finished  writing  down 
her  confession. 

"  True  or  untrue,"  he  said,  "  it  may  be  enough  to  get 
the  man  a  reprieve — for  a  time,  at  least.  Therefore,  we 
had  better  all  sign  it."  So  they  signed,  all  four  of  them, 
and  Billy  Earsman  added  his  X  mark. 

Mr.  Molesay  stood  musing  a  moment  upon  the  empty 
shell  of  that  which  had  now  forever  escaped  him.  His 
head  was  still  uncovered,  and  of  the  little  group  standing 
about,  only  Baby  Lant — who  had  never  seen  death — and 
McGhie's  Kid,  whom  death  that  day  had  passed  so  closely 
by,  were  in  tears. 

Then  the  police  missionary  murmured  softly,  not  a  text, 
as  perhaps  he  ought,  but  the  following  ancient  words,  favor- 
ites of  his: 

'*  Christlike  it  is  for  sin  to  grieve, 
Godlike  it  is  all  sin  to  leave." 

"  And  this  woman,"  he  continued,  pointing  with  his 
finger,  "  is  at  least  godlike  in  this,  that  she  has  left  her 
body  of  sin  behind  her.  Who  among  us  shall  cast  the  first 
stone,  and  judge  the  escaped  soul?  " 

And  in  Billy  Earsman's  arms,  poor  Mad  Mag — her 
oath  scarce  cold  upon  her  lips,  but  with  the  strange  bless- 
ing of  one  who  has  taken  another's  sin  upon  them,  glorify- 
ing her  face — was  borne  to  the  little,  clean,  whitewashed 
mortuary  of  the  "  Peat  "  Reformatory. 

And  they  shut  the  door,  so  that  no  man  knows  whether 
the  angels  twain  who  do  such  offices  came  down  to  keep 
their  accustomed  watch,  one  at  the  head  and  one  at  the 
foot,  where  the  body  was  laid. 

Perhaps ! 

335 


CHAPTER  XXV 


BABY   LANT  S   REPENTANCE 


HE    little    city    missionary    went    up    to    the 
Calton  to  carry  the  condemned  man  the  news 
of  his  wife's  dying  confession.     Knifer  Jack- 
son scarcely  lifted  his  eyelashes  as  he  listened. 
"She    said    that,    did    she?"    he    said. 
"  Good  old  girl,  Mag — she  did  what  she  could !  " 

More  than  that  could  not  be  drawn  from  him.  Nor, 
indeed,  did  the  little  silver-topped  man  try  very  hard.  He 
knew  that  it  would  be  nearer  the  time  when  the  hammers 
were  clanking  in  the  yard,  and  the  great  beam  of  execution 
was  being  protruded,  that  such  a  heart  as  the  Knifer's 
would  be  softened. 

But  perhaps  not  even  then.  For  Knifer  was  of  those 
rare  criminals,  more  numerous,  however,  in  the  Three  Is- 
lands than  in  France,  who,  like  Avinain,  that  terrible 
butcher,  take  for  their  motto  "  N'avouez  jamais  J " — 
"  Never  confess!  " 

Still,  at  intervals  the  little  missionary  wrestled  with  the 
condemned  man.  For,  to  his  thinking,  there  was  no  soul 
that  could  not  be  saved,  which  was  not  made  to  be  saved. 
Consequently,  he  despaired  not  even  of  the  Knifer — though, 
be  it  said,  at  present  the  Knifer  gave  him  little  enough 
encouragement. 

"  I  am,  maybe,  no  lang  for  this  world,"  said  the  Knifer 
336 


BABY    LANT'S    REPENTANCE 

philosophically,  "  and  I  dinna  think  that  it  wad  do  me 
mickle  guid  in  the  country  where  I  am  to  travel,  to  pre- 
tend wi'  the  lip  to  what  is  no  in  the  heart!  But  if  it  will 
do  you  ony  guid,  I  will  aye  say  a  prayer  after  ye — you 
taking  the  responsibility,  as  it  were.  And  if  you  could 
reconcile  it  wi'  your  conscience  to  bring  me  in  a  twist  o' 
tobacco,  Kinahan's  Irish  Blackguard  for  choice,  I  wad  caa 
the  maitter  square!  " 

These  things  did  Mr.  Archbold  Molesay,  immaculate 
police  missionary.  And  if  any  of  the  warders  of  the  prison, 
or  the  master  of  it  himself,  had  by  the  smell  of  the  nostril 
any  suspicion  of  the  contents  of  his  coat-tail  pockets,  they 
winked  hard  upon  the  hither  eye  as  he  passed  in  and  out. 

It  is  well  to  be  trusted  and  have  a  character.  For  had 
any  other  come  with  an  order  of  admission  to  the  condemned 
cell,  he  would  have  been  searched  to  his  lamb's-wool  under- 
vest,  in  fear  of  prussic  acid,  or  other  means  of  "  cheating 
the  widdy." 

All  the  same  the  representations  of  the  five  as  to  the 
death  and  dying  depositions  of  Mad  Mag  were  thought  of 
sufficient  consequence  that  the  Knifer  received  a  reprieve  to 
allow  of  inquiries  to  be  made.  But  the  letter  of  the  secre- 
tary of  state  to  the  prisoner's  advocate  defined  clearly  that, 
unless  something  more  was  brought  to  light,  there  was  no 
idea  of  extending  any  permanent  pardon  to  the  Knifer.  In 
short,  in  high  quarters  Mag's  story  was  not  believed.  She 
had  perjured  herself  in  vain.  And  yet  perhaps  not  wholly, 
if  it  be  true  that  there  is  One  who  regards  the  intents  of 
the  heart. 

Still,  from  here  and  there,  from  neighbors  in  the  great 
"  land  "  of  Hagman's  Close,  from  dwellers  in  the  vicinity 
of  the  Three  Ridings,  there  arrived  at  the  bureau  of  jus- 
tice certain  corroborations  of  Mag's  story.     One  had  seen 

337 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

her  leave  Edinburgh  that  afternoon  in  company  with  her 
husband.     This  was  thought  a  remarkable  thing  at  the  time, 
but  was  understood  to  mean  that,  in  the  absence  of  Mc- . 
Ghie's  Kid  and  Duffus,  the  Knifer  had  to  put  up  with  the 
best  assistance  he  could  obtain. 

A  farmer,  looking  his  sheep  high  on  Kingside,  had 
watched  a  woman  like  Mag  going  straight  across  the  fields 
from  the  direction  of  Three  Ridings.  The  Knifer  him- 
self had  nothing  to  say,  for  or  against. 

"  Maybe  I  didna  do  this  that  they  are  hanging  me  for," 
he  said,  "  but  there  is  no  manner  o'  use  in  lettin'  Mag, 
puir  silly  wench,  bear  the  weight  o't — and  her  deid!  Na, 
na,  let  every  herring  find  the  weight  o'  its  ain  tail,  as  I  am 
like  to  do  some  fine  caller  morning  before  long.  And  the 
guidwives  o'  the  High  Street  will  stop  turnin'  the  ham  in 
the  pan,  syne  look  oot  at  the  window  wi'  the  fork  in  their 
hand,  and  say  as  the  black  flag  gaes  flapperin'  up,  '  Aye — 
yon's  the  Knifer,  puir  chield !  Noo  he  kens  what's  what 
better  than  ony  minister  amang  them  a' !  '  ' 

Curiously  enough,  the  Knifer  asked  more  than  once  for 
news  of  the  Kid.  He  seemed  to  bear  no  malice,  and  even 
expressed  a  wish  to  see  him.  But  this  was  beyond  even  Mr. 
Molesay's  mandate.  The  authorities  feared  some  sudden 
transport  of  anger.  The  Knifer  understood  and  waved  his 
request  aside  almost  gracefully. 

"  Aweel,"  he  said,  "  let  him  be.  If  he  is  to  be  reared 
as  a  gentleman  in  a  minister's  hoose,  it  is  maybe  as  weel 
that  he  should  have  as  few  memories  as  possible.  But  I 
think  he  will  aye  be  a  fair  good  locksmith  a'  his  life.  I  wot 
that  '  Blind  Jacob's  '  will  have  done  that  muckle  for  him!  " 

It  was  a  fair,  clear,  brisk  day  in  a  somewhat  chilly 
August  that  the  Kid  started  down  to  revisit  for  the  second 

338 


BABY    LANT'S    REPENTANCE 

time  his  native  town  of  Kirkmessan.  He  was  now  "  Mas- 
ter Alexander  McGhie,"  and  the  discipline  of  the  "  Peat  " 
had  squared  his  shoulders  and  hardened  his  features,  yet 
without  taking  the  boyishness  out  of  his  cheeks. 

Patricia  had  not  visited  her  home  for  a  long  time.  She 
had  been  looking  a  little  pale  of  late.  The  suspense  was 
telling  on  her.  So  it  was  resolved  that  she  should  escort 
"  Master  Alexander  "  down  to  the  care  of  her  sister,  a  cer- 
tain Mrs.  William  Heath  Symington,  intimately  known  to 
this  history  as  "  Marthe." 

As  soon  as  this  design  became  known  it  was  remarkable 
— according  to  Baby  Lant — how  many  gentlemen  had  busi- 
ness in  that  customarily  little-visited  provincial  town. 

For  at  the  last  moment  Baby  Lant  had  decided  to  come, 
too — to  see  fair  play,  as  she  alleged. 

"  I  want  a  rest  from  uncle  and  aunt,"  she  declared.  "  I 
suppose  they  were  more  bearable  in  the  time  of  the  Ham- 
mers— who  took  care  of  them,  setting  them  in  their  baby 
chairs,  and  taking  them  out,  like  twins  in  one  perambulator ! 
But  now  since  they  have  awaked  to  the  belief  that  the 
necessary  daily  repairs  upon  their  persons  can  be  effected 
with  the  aid  of  their  guests — really,  Patricia,  a  frivolous 
person  such  as  I  cannot  stand  very  much  of  them  at  a  time. 
I  am  going  to  beg  of  Patrick  Egbert  to  have  you  taken  into 
favor  again " 

"  No — n0)"  cried  Patricia,  gladly  establishing  herself  in 
the  carriage.  "  Let  every  heiress  bear  her  own  burden.  It's 
your  turn  now.    And  as  for  me: 

««  «  Come,  birdie,  come,  and  live  with  me, 
You  shall  be  happy,  light,  and  free! 
You  shall  be  all  the  world  to  me, 

Come,  birdie,  come  .   .    .   and  live  with  me!  '  " 
339 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

"  Pat,"  said  Baby  Lant  bitterly,  "  if  you  want  to  have 
a  six-shilling  novel — uncut,  at  bookstall,  no  discount — 
thrown  at  your  head,  you  have  only  to  say  so,  you 
know!  " 

"  Well,"  pursued  Patricia  more  meekly,  "  you  must 
make  allowances — it  was  only  the  effect  of  being  poor  and 
happy  which  made  me  burst,  as  it  were,  into  unpremeditated 
song!  " 

"  Unpremeditated  fiddlesticks!  "  cried  Baby  Lant.  "  One 
thing  I  know — if  I  had  been  convoying  the  Kid  down  to 
Marthe's  I  should  have  had  the  pleasure  of  his  company 
alone!  But  with  you,  Pat — one  has  half  the  countryside 
in  attendance.  I  declare — these  two  men — well  ...  if 
.  .  .  ever  I  did!  One  is  hunting  for  grapes  and  unripe  fruit 
at  the  cigarette  stall — and  the  other,  that's  Mr.  Molesay, 
is  gazing  at  the  bookstall  as  if  he  were  seriously  in  debate  as 
to  what  wouldn't  hurt  your  youthful  mind.  It's  a  shame, 
Pat,  and  I  won't  have  it !  He  shall  pay  attention  to  me. 
I'm  not  going  to  sit  five  hours  and  see  the  Kid  worship 
you  with  his  big  eyes,  and  Mr.  Molesay  flush  up  and  stop 
in  the  middle  of  his  sentences,  and  Hearne,  the  great  stupid, 
keep  looking  at  you  as  if  you  were  good  to  eat — candy  or 
something!  " 

"Hush,  Baby,  here  they  come  with  the  boy!"  whis- 
pered Patricia. 

"  /  don't  care,"  said  Baby  Lant.  "  Mr.  Molesay  is 
going  to  take  some  notice  of  me,  or  I'm  going  to  jump 
out  of  the  carriage  window,  or  up  into  the  luggage  rack, 
and  then  he'll  have  to!  " 

Just  then  the  men  entered  bearing  their  treasures  of 
books,  pamphlets,  fruit,  while  the  Kid,  all  uneasy — but 
very  proud — in  his  new  rig,  was  given  a  place  in  the 
corner — because,    as    the    curl    of    Baby    Lant's    lip    inti- 

340 


BABY    LANT'S    REPENTANCE 

mated    scornfully,    "  everybody    else    wanted    to    sit    beside 
Patricia!" 

Each  mile  that  the  racing  wheels  of  the  deep-blue  Cale- 
donian locomotive  put  behind  them,  every  arriving  land- 
scape, seemed  to  take  the  Kid  into  a  new  world — a  world 
of  hills  and  fine  rare  aerial  distances,  and,  strangest  of  all, 
of  foregrounds  in  which  people  laughed  and  talked  and 
smiled! 

At  first  he  sat  merely  amazed,  uncomprehending.  Did 
other  people  talk  like  that?  Such  a  flow  of  little  kindly 
nothings,  just  to  show  each  other  how  happy  they  were? 
The  people  the  Kid  had  previously  known  swore,  threat- 
ened, ordered,  bullied — punctuating  all  their  sayings  and 
doings  with  blows.    Well,  no,  not  all — there  was  his  father. 

Yes,  his  real  father — David  McGhie  of  Back  Mill 
Lands.  He  had  been  different.  He  had  been  more  like 
these  people — only  sad,  only  silent.  But  he  had  been  of 
their  world.  And  aching  vaguely  in  his  boyish  heart,  the 
Kid  began  to  watch  and  imitate.  He  would  try  to  say 
things  as  they  said  them — especially  Baby  Lant.  He  would 
do  things  as  they  did  them — especially  Baby  Lant. 

Never  had  he  dreamed  of  anything  so  bewitching  as 
this  girl  now  seemed  to  him.  Miss  Patricia  and  Hearne 
had  been  kind  to  him — oh,  yes,  and  Mr.  Molesay.  Baby 
Lant  he  had  only  seen  for  a  minute  or  two,  that  terrible  day 
on  the  moor.  Yes,  Baby,  perhaps  it  was  for  that  reason, 
and  still  more  because  of  the  adorable  way  you  had  of  throw- 
ing your  arms  back  and  clasping  your  little  hands  behind 
your  head — lazy  Baby  Lant,  blue-eyed  Baby  Lant,  with 
lips  that  curled  sometimes  with  delightful  malice,  some- 
times with  laughing  guile — this  small  kid  of  the  goats  lost 
his  heart  to  you.    And,  indeed,  save  that  Patricia  had  done 

341 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

everything  for  him,  small  blame  to  him!  But  in  love,  that 
is  usually  the  last  thing  that  makes  any  difference. 

It  was  with  shame  that  the  Kid  passed  the  ticket  col- 
lector at  Kirkmessan.  He  knew  him  for  Tom  Shewan, 
the  station  master's  son  at  Portnessock.  But  Tom  did  not 
recognize  this  young  gentleman  in  the  well-cut  town  suit, 
the  carefully  trimmed  hair,  the  rare  and  low-toned  speech. 
Above  all,  the  facts  that  he  was  in  the  company  of  "  some 
o'  thae  McGhie  lasses,"  and  was  going  to  "  the  minister's  " 
compelled  Tom  Shewan — actually,  yes,  he  did  it — to  touch 
his  new  railway  cap.  If  he  had  suspected  that  he  had  done 
such  a  thing  to  McGhie's  Kid,  to  use  his  own  expression, 
"  he  would  have  '  bust ' !  " 

But  he  did  not  know.  And  so  the  fact  marks  a  new 
stage  in  the  life  history,  the  rise  and  progress  of  McGhie's 
Kid. 

It  was  something  from  which  the  Kid  was  rather  in- 
clined to  turn  away  his  eyes,  to  see  the  welcome  that 
Marthe  gave  them  in  the  little  square  stone  "  kist  "  of  a 
manse  at  the  corner  of  the  Carlops  Road.  There  was  a 
new  tenderness  in  her  eyes,  for  was  there  not  a  brass-fended 
cot  upstairs  in  which  lay  what  Baby  Lant  called  "  a  little 
squalling  brat,"  and  the  brat's  nearest  relative,  on  the 
female  side,  designated  as  "  mother's  own  sweetness," 
"  mammy's  four-leafed  clover,"  with  other  foolish  names 
— hearing  which  Baby  Lant  cried  out  unsympathetically, 
"  Oh,  give  it  its  father's  sermons  to  play  with.  It  will 
understand  them  perfectly.  There  never  was  such  a  won- 
drous babe  in  this  world !  " 

"  Daisy  is  not  an  '  It'  I  would  have  you  remember, 
Atalanta,"  cried  the  proud  mother;  "and  she  doesn't  want 
sermons!  She  has  your  old  writing  desk,  the  one  you  left 
here  before  you  went  away,  to  play  with.    The  letters  were 

342 


BABY    LANT'S    REPENTANCE 

all  scattered  about  the  nursery  floor — hello,  Baby  Lant, 
where  are  you  going  to  in  such  a  hurry?  " 

And  disregarding  Baby  Lant's  hurried  rush  up  the  stairs 
to  save  her  private  correspondence  from  the  fell  grip  of  the 
destroyer,  Marthe  turned  to  Pat  with  a  smile  of  quiet 
triumph. 

"  Being  married  does  teach  you  a  few  odd  things,"  she 
said.  "  For  instance,  how  to  deal  with  younger  sisters 
when  they  are  impertinent !  " 

"  I  suppose  you  don't  include  me,  Marthe,"  said  Pat 
gravely.  "  I  don't  dance  waltzes  with  twirling  chairs  any 
more.  And  I  speak  of  babies  respectfully,  and  always  by 
the  personal  pronoun  denoting  sex — never  as  '  It.'  There 
are  signs  of  grace  about  me." 

"  Yes,"  said  Marthe  sagely,  throwing  her  arm  about 
her  sister's  neck  (having  first  noticed  that  her  husband 
was  showing  the  Kid  round  the  orchard,  and  explaining 
the  system  of  grafting  fruit  trees  to  Daisy)  ;  "  of  course 
it  was  dreadful  of  you  to  run  away  and  all  that — 
but " 

"  You  would  have  done  the  same,  Marthe — if  he  had 
been  Willie !  " 

"Oh,  of  course,"  said  Marthe,  "but  that's  impossible! 
There  is  no  one  in  the  least  like  Willie.  That  is  the  con- 
clusion I  have  come  to  now — though  I  knew  it  before. 
And  he  is  so  nice  with  baby.  And  Daisy  knows  him,  too 
— says  '  Gooo '  and  '  Guggle-guggle,'  and  pulls  his  mus- 
tache.    It's  wonderful!  " 

"  Mr.  Symington  will  now  be  able  to  add  the  usual 
'  Word  to  Mothers  '  to  the  end  of  his  sermons  with  more 
serious  conviction ! "  said  Pat,  somewhat  in  her  earlier 
manner. 

"  Willie's  sermons  are  not  like  anybody  else's — you 
343 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

shall  hear!"  said  the  loyal  Marthe.  "I  hope  your  .  .  . 
friend  .  .  .  has  right  views,  Pat!  " 

"  I'm  sure  I  never  asked  him,"  cried  Pat  with  a  certain 
indignation.  "  He  has  twice  spent  every  penny  he  possessed 
on  a  reformatory  for  boys.  Then  he  worked  like  a  navvy 
for  a  hundred  a  year,  because  he  had  given  away  all  he  pos- 
sessed to  make  his  poor  boys  better.  As  to  his  views,  you 
can  ask  him  yourself.  And  if  you  don't  like  them,  you  can 
.  .  .  forbid  us  the  house!  " 

"  Dear — dear — little  spitfire  Pat,"  cried  Marthe,  wind- 
ing her  arms,  grown  the  faintest  tinge  more  matronly  in 
their  curves,  about  her  sister's  neck.  "  He  shall  be  a  Mo- 
hammedan— that  he  shall,  if  he  likes!  And  he  can  spread 
his  praying  carpet  in  the  corner  of  my  drawing-room.  He 
shall  cry  '  Allah-il-Allah  '  or  whatever  it  is,  morning  and 
night,  from  the  top  of  Willie's  steeple.  But  don't  be  angry 
with  your  Marthe  any  more!  " 

Effectively,  no  one  could  long  be  angry  with  Marthe. 
Daisy's  grandmother  came  down  to  see  her  every  day,  and 
seemed  in  the  fair  way  to  spoil  her  when  she  grew  up.  For 
already  the  little  thing  squirmed  in  her  cot,  and  held  out 
her  arms  at  the  sound  of  the  stiff-rustling  brown  silk  on 
the  nursery  stairs,  which  pleased  the  old  lady  very  much. 

P.  Brydson  McGhie  was  recovering  from  the  shock  to 
his  feelings  which  the  trial  had  given  to  his  "  pedigreeing." 
He  generally  turned  up,  however,  once  a  Sunday — on  fair, 
rainless,  windless  days — to  patronize  the  Martyrs'  Kirk  and 
to  drop  a  whole  golden  sovereign  into  the  plate  with  a  re- 
sounding clang,  which  said,  "  Take  notice,  Lord  of  the 
heavens  and  the  earth,  I,  P.  Brydson  McGhie,  am  doing 
this  for  You — in  spite  of  Your  disappointing  me  in  the  matter 
of  the  pedigree!  " 

P.  Brydson  did  not,  at  first,  approve  of  the  Kid.  But, 
3M 


BABY    LANT'S    REPENTANCE 

then,  his  opinion  was  not  asked.  He  had,  however,  a  great 
reverence  for  Baby  Lant,  who  was  to  be  an  heiress — vice 
Patricia,  superseded — and  also  for  Patricia,  who — it  was  not 
too  early  to  take  for  granted — would  one  day  be  my  Lady 
Athabasca.  To  be  the  father  of  "  a  genuine  peeress  "  was 
even  worth  more  to  P.  Brydson  than  to  be  chief  of  the  clan 
and  head  of  the  name — wholly  barren  honors  both. 

In  any  case  the  Kid  was  finally  presented  to  him  as  a 
somewhat  shy  boy  whom  Pat  and  Baby  Lant  had  taken  a 
fancy  to,  and  had  asked  Marthe  to  help  them  bring  up. 
Very  proper,  he  said,  it  was  excellent,  for  the  Symingtons 
were  not  at  all  well  off,  and  it  is  good  for  young  people  to 
bear  the  yoke  in  their  youth.  P.  Brydson  had  done  it  him- 
self. Most  proper,  indeed!  He  would  look  in  occasionally 
and  see  how  the  boy  got  on  in  arithmetic.  He  had  always 
noticed  that  his  son-in-law,  being  a  minister,  was  notably 
defective  in  that  branch — a  thing  by  no  means  singular  in 
his  class. 

Thus,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  the  head  of  the  Clan 
McGhie  had  a  chance  in  life.  A  justice  of  the  peace  was 
taking  an  interest  in  him. 

It  must  be  allowed,  however,  that  "  the  behavior  of  Baby 
Lant  "  left  something  to  be  desired  at  this  time.  Indeed 
it  would  require  a  book  as  large  as  this  entire  history  to  do 
it  justice — and,  speaking  from  the  craftsman's  point  of  view, 
I  have  a  great  mind  to  write  it.  The  title  is  there  at  any 
rate,  and  a  very  good  one  it  is. 

Marthe  designated  it  as  "  nothing  short  of  scandalous." 
So  the  volume  ought  by  analogy  to  have  some  considerable 
success.  "  The  Behavior  of  Baby  Lant  "  is  not  yet,  how- 
ever, upon  the  market. 

Patricia  remembered  with  compunction  how  she  used  to 
23  345 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

balance  herself  on  two  chair  backs  and  was  silent.  Hearne 
Mackenzie  would  not  have  cared  if  Baby  Lant  had  publicly 
bayed  the  moon,  so  long  as  he  was  permitted  to  escort  Pa- 
tricia about,  and  see  the  places  where  she  used  to  lie  on  the 
banks  of  the  Messan  Water,  long  and  lazy,  wondering  why 
only  boys  were  allowed  to  go  in  swimming!  Or  he  would 
look  with  his  trained  woodman's  eye  at  the  trees  Pat  used 
to  climb,  the  younger  brethren,  of  the  green  apples  she  used 
to — no,  not  steal — but  obtain  without  the  consent  of  the 
proprietor!  He  was  introduced  to  all  the  McGhie  brothers, 
even  Rob  having  sobered  down  into  something  so  reasonable 
as  a  clerk  in  Dribble  &  Hillowton's  lawyers'  office  in  Kirk- 
messan  town.  They  all  wished  that  Gilbert  had  been  there, 
and  wrote  off  a  letter  to  say  that  they  had  a  joint  invitation 
to  go  and  shoot  at  Three  Ridings!  So  it  was  all  right,  if 
only,  conjunctly  and  severally,  they  could  "  fudge  "  as  much 
out  of  the  "  old  'un  "  as  would  pay  for  their  gun  licenses — 
the  fellow  was  so  dead  gone  on  Pat  that  he  would  lend  them 
all  his  best  guns.  He,  too,  was  "  all  right  "  and  had  even 
shot  grizzly  bear.  But  otherwise,  owing  to  the  unaccount- 
able infatuation  aforesaid,  he  was  "  dead  soft,"  and  could 
be  worked  like  modeling  clay  in  the  hands  of  the  potter,  by 
these  highly  agreeable  brothers  McGhie.  Toward  the  fund 
necessary  for  exploiting  such  a  potential  mine  of  wealth, 
Gilbert  was  warned  to  "  strike  the  mater "  for  as  many 
fivers  as  he  could,  to  help  him  through  with  his  "  exams,"  and 
then  to  economize  like  fun  so  that  gun  and  game  licenses 
together  with  tips  for  the  keepers  might  be  forthcoming 
when  the  visit  to  Three  Ridings  took  place! 

Nice,  thoughtful,  provident  young  men  were  the  broth- 
ers McGhie,  and,  as  sayeth  the  poet,  "  most  remarkable  like 
you  " — and  me ! 

But  Baby  Lant!  It  is  obvious  that  her  much-to-be- 
346 


BABY    LANT'S    REPENTANCE 

reprobated  behavior  must  have  been  with  the  only  unattached 
adult  of  the  party — that  is,  with  Mr.  Molesay. 

And  so  it  was.  Let  it  be  said  for  her,  however,  that 
she  had  been  "  dared  "  to  it  by  the  wicked  and  designing 
Hearne,  who  had  been  struck  by  the  silent  worship  with 
which  the  little  city  missionary  watched  Patricia.  Baby 
Lant  could  do  no  harm,  he  thought.  She  might  even  effect 
a  cure,  on  the  principle  of  "  two  into  one  goes  no  times." 

Thus,  had  Mr.  Molesay  been  other  than  what  he  was, 
treading  a  wilderness  way — pillar  of  fire  before,  and  be- 
hind, in  the  lurid  red  of  the  dead  sunset,  the  guardian  pillar 
of  cloud — he  might  have  been  butchered  to  make  an  Atalan- 
tear  holiday. 

But  Mr.  Molesay,  though  in  his  deepest  heart  preserving 
ever  a  memory  of  that  day — the  one  day  of  his  life  when 
he  had  wandered  through  flowery  meads,  the  hand  of  an 
innocent  and  gentle  girl  on  his  arm,  great  turquoise  eyes 
looking  up  to  his,  her  lips  chattering  of  all  things  bright  and 
fresh  and  glad  like  herself — remembered  also  that  there 
were  those  waiting  for  him  in  the  grimy  Cowgate  with 
stronger  claims.  He  could  not,  he  thought,  have  made  this 
girl  better,  or  truer,  or  simpler,  or  more  trusting  and  worthy 
of  trust  than  she  was. 

"God  bless  her!"  murmured  the  little  city  missionary, 
with  an  involuntary  uplift  of  the  heart.  He  thought  she 
was  like  her  sister,  Patricia,  which  was  not  at  all  true. 

"  God  bless  you,  my  dear!  "  he  said  aloud  as  she  smiled 
trustfully  up  at  him.  "  Your  smile  is  like  the  white  clouds 
in  the  blue  when  the  sun  shines — like  the  morning  light  on 
banks  of  yellow  broom  and  whin  in  the  springtime.  I  am 
glad  God  made  it!  " 

And  then  Baby  Lant,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  had 
the  grace — quite  temporary — to  be  ashamed  of  herself. 

347 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

"Are  you  not  happy  here?"  she  asked,  a  little  sobered 
and  wistful  somehow. 

"  Happy!  "  he  answered.  "  So  happy  that  I  am  fairly 
ashamed  of  myself,  when  there  are  those  waiting  for  me 
away  back  yonder  in  the  dim  place — Billy  and  Kate  Earsman, 
the  big  blacksmith,  Jock  Cockpen " 

"  Oh,"  said  Baby  Lant,  clasping  her  hands  swiftly  before 
her,  "  no  wonder  you  hate  and  despise  me — thinking  of 
such  things  as  that!  " 

"Hate  you — despise  you?  Oh,  my  dear!"  said  Mr. 
Arch  bold  Molesay  turning  toward  her,  his  hat,  as  usual,  in 
his  hand,  and  a  light  wind  touching  the  argentine  ripple  of 
his  hair. 

The  girl  turned  her  eyes  to  him,  dimmed  with  a  light 
dew,  which  was  not  tears,  but  a  sense  of  unworthiness 
transforming  itself  into  moisture. 

"  Ah,"  she  said,  "  some  day,  perhaps,  I  shall  be  serious 
and  wise,  like  Marthe.  Or  make  everybody  think  how 
splendid  I  am — like  Pat!  But  just  now  I  can't — I  don't 
seem  to  know  how — that  is " 

And  what  had  been  only  a  generous  moisture  deepened 
into  wells,  overbrimmed,  and  ran  down  the  wild-rose  cheeks 
in  big  tears.  Baby  Lant  could  do  this  when  she  liked,  but 
she  was  not  playing  this  time. 

Said  the  city  missionary,  laying  his  hand  very  gently  on 
her  arm,  and  turning  her  about  to  see  the  green  cowslip- 
spangled  fields,  the  meadows  creamed  with  meadowsweet, 
all  fading  away  into  the  pale-blue  distance,  and  arched  over 
by  the  bluer  sky,  "  I  said  before  that  God  made  your  smile. 
And  now  I  say  that  He  made  you  as  you  are,  for  your  own 
work — to  make  all,  women  and  men  alike,  glad  by  your 
beauty.  Why  not?  There  is  nothing  more  pernicious  than 
the  idea  that  good  women  are  jealous  of  beautiful  women. 

348 


BABY    LANT'S    REPENTANCE 

If  all  things  were  made  with  a  purpose,  be  sure,  my  dear, 
that  your  beauty  was  given  you  to  bring  joy  to  weary,  anx- 
ious, warring  hearts.  Be  glad  and  gay.  That  is  what  you 
are  in  the  world  for.  Remember  the  purple  hill  shadows  on 
lonely  lochs  where  no  one  sees  them,  hidden  in  the  vast  of 
the  hills.  Think  what  gorgeous  sunsets  are  wasted  on  those 
wide  ocean  circles  where  not  a  single  ship  ever  comes  from 
year's  end  to  year's  end !  But  there — I  am  at  it  once  more — 
sermonizing  again.  As  I  said  before — the  dyer's  hand,  my 
dear.  But  I  shall  not  forget  you — or  your  sister.  I  go  back 
to-night  to  the  dim  place — the  under  city — where  I  must 
labor  till  I  die,  among  the  spirits  in  prison." 

The  little  missionary  was  speaking  so  softly  now  that 
none  could  hear  him  but  Baby  Lant.  They  were  at  the 
extreme  high  end  of  the  narrow  policies  of  Balmaghie,  and 
could  trace  for  miles  beneath  them  the  course  of  the  Messan 
Water. 

"And  did  you  never  love  anyone  really?"  said  Baby 
Lant  softly,  all  her  folly  having  dropped  from  her  as  a 
cloak  falls  from  the  shoulders,  "  any  woman,  I  mean  ?  " 

The  little  missionary  stood  looking  down  at  the  wide 
spread  of  the  dale  and  up  at  the  purple  of  the  heather 
breaking  out  on  the  flanks  of  the  hills.  He  was  silent 
so  long  that  Baby  Lant,  afraid  that  she  had  offended 
him,  hastened  to  add,  "  Don't  tell  me  if  you  would 
rather  not!  Please  don't! — I — I — I  didn't  mean  to  hurt 
you! 

"  Yes,  one — "  said  the  missionary  pensively,  but  not 
looking  directly  at  her,  "  but — it  was  too  late.  I  had  not 
the   right!  " 

"Our  Pat — I  know!  "  murmured  Baby  Lant,  not  as  a 
question  at  all,  but  with  all  the  sympathy  in  her  heart. 

The  missionary  was  silent.  Something  of  the  wistful- 
349 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

ness  which  dwells  in  all  blue  distances  when  looked  at  long, 
came  into  his  dim  eyes. 

"  I  have  not  the  right  to  ask  any  woman  to  share  my  lot," 
he  said.  "  I  have  argued  it  out  before.  In  some  ways  the 
Catholics  are  right.  For  the  far  lands  of  fever  and  danger 
— for  the  dim  city  closes — it  is  good  for  a  man  to  be  alone. 
It  is  good — it  is  good !  " 

"  For  the  man?  "  queried  Baby  Lant,  who  was  watching 
him  sharply.  "  Archbold  Molesay,  dare  you  say  that  it  is 
good  for  you  ?  " 

The  little  missionary  started  at  the  mention  of  his  name. 
But  he  only  firmed  his  lips  and  continued : 

"  Even  if  I  had  been  young — and  she — free,"  he  faltered 
here  a  little,  "  I  dared  not.  I  could  not  have  taken  her — 
there.  Once  she  was  amongst  us,  and  I  saw.  She  never 
could  have  been  of  us.  She  passed  by,  like  the  angels  along 
the  streets  of  the  cities  of  the  plain.  Well,"  he  turned 
sharply  as  if  to  put  aside  the  subject  with  a  wave  of  his 
hand,  "what  am  I  saying?  What  folly — ah,  what  terrible 
folly!  You  will  not  tell  her.  It  came  over  me — something 
in  the  day!  Something  also,  in  your  eyes,  perhaps — yes,  I 
think  it  was  that!  " 

"  Oh !  "  cried  Baby  Lant,  moved  as  she  never  had  been 
before.  "  What  a  pity  you  did  not  fall  in  love  with  me  and 
not  with  Pat.  But  you  didn't,  you  see.  And  oh,  I  want  so 
to  help  you — and  I  can't !  " 

"  I  might  have  been  your  father,  child,"  said  the  little 
missionary,  "  and  I  see  that  your  words  run  away  with 
your  kind  heart.  You  will  be  a  blessing  and  a  brightness  to 
a  man  of  your  own  age.  And  for  me,  I  shall  never  forget 
the  happiness  it  has  been  to  know  you — and — and — your 
sister!  " 

He  looked  so  sad  and  so  in  want  of  a  woman  to  take  care 
350 


BABY    LANT'S    REPENTANCE 

of  him  that  Baby  Lant,  her  heart  leaping  to  her  throat, 
clasped  her  hands  and  cried,  "  Oh,  can't  I  do  anything  be- 
fore you  go?  " 

She  stood  breathless  a  long  moment,  almost  panting  with 
that  which  was  on  the  tip  of  her  tongue  to  utter,  then  it  came 
with  a  rush: 

"  You  don't  care  a  button  about  me,  I  know,"  she  said 
hastily,  "but  would  you  mind  if  I  kissed  you?  Would  you 
really  mind?  It  would  make  me  happier.  I  know  you 
would  rather  it  was  Pat — but  though  it's  only  me !  " 

There  was  the  sigh  of  the  wind  among  the  leaves 
overhead,  a  hush  like  the  passing  of  a  good  if  tricksy  spirit. 
And  lo!  the  little  missionary  was  kissed  for  the  first  time 
since  his  mother  kissed  him  good-by  at  the  wayside  station, 
before  the  train  started  that  bore  him  collegeward  with  his 
bursary. 

"Thank  you!"  he  said  gravely  as  he  stood  holding  a 
little  trembling  hand  in  his,  on  the  back  of  which  occasional 
big  warm  drops  were  falling. 

This  was  Baby  Lant's  repentance  for  her  sometime 
behavior.     She  had  done  what  she  could. 


351 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

THE    LAST    RAID    OF    "  BLIND    JACOB'S  " 

LIND  JACOB'S  "  did  not  take  its  defeat  in 
good  part.  The  Knifer  was  out  of  the  reach 
of  its  aid.  He  had  been  reprieved,  it  is  true. 
But  few  believed  that  anything  would  come 
out  of  Mad  Mag's  last  dying  words  and 
testimony.  Nevertheless,  in  a  little  sunk  flat  near  the  house 
called  "  Davie  Dean's  Cottage  " — of  which  Scott  said  that 
wherever  Davie  Dean  dwelt  it  was  certainly  not  there — 
Corn  Beef  Jo,  Daddy  Lennox,  Fighting  Nick  Brady,  and — 
the  young  man  who  was  now  the  brains  of  the  concern,  a 
certain  Duffus  of  the  red  tie,  met  to  discuss  the  situation. 
They  could  look  up  at  an  acute  angle  and  see  a  patch  of  sky 
above  them,  and  far  away  to  the  right  the  gray  scarred  wall 
of  the  Salisbury  Craigs.  The  rest  of  the  house  was  un- 
occupied, the  windows  boarded,  but  Duffus  having  speedily 
improvised  a  key,  the  lower  portion  was  theirs  for  so  long 
a  time  as  the  house  remained  unpulled  down.  For  it  was 
condemned,  and  Prof.  Peter  Geddie,  the  man  who  has  let 
more  light  into  Edinburgh  than  a  score  of  acts  of  Parlia- 
ment, was  about  to  build  on  the  site  another  of  his  pic- 
turesque red-tiled  barracks. 

In  the  meantime,  and  wholly  without  the  concurrence 
of    Professor   Geddie,    the   college   staff   of    "  St.    Jacob's," 

352 


THE    LAST    RAID    OF    "BLIND    JACOB'S" 

driven  to  their  last  intrenchments,  had  rallied  here  their 
forces.  It  was  but  little  time  they  could  venture  to  spend 
together,  for,  except  Duffus,  who  had  proved  hitherto  in- 
visible and  ungraspable,  the  whole  company  was  under  the 
observation  of  the  police. 

The  exchequer  also,  general  and  personal,  was  ominously 
low.  Something  must  be  done  and  that  instanter.  There 
was  no  time  to  plot  revenge  on  the  Kid  for  his  testimony 
against  the  Knifer,  nor  for  any  recriminations  as  to  the 
helter-skelter  sauve  qui  peut  which  had  disgraced  the  at- 
tempt upon  Three  Ridings  during  the  night  of  the  fire  at  the 
"  Peat."     They  would  manage  better  the  next  time. 

Duffus  of  the  red  tie  had  an  idea.  At  this  everyone 
pricked  up  his  ears.  Duffus  was  worth  listening  to.  There 
was  only  one  thing  against  Duffus — he  could  devise  better 
than  anybody,  except  perhaps  the  Knifer.  Some  said  that 
he  had  even  a  better  headpiece  than  that  hero,  who  being 
about  to  die,  assembled  "  St.  Jacob's  "  saluted  in  raw  whisky 
— whisky  such  as  Billy  Earsman  would  have  thrown  into 
the  sink.  In  execution  also,  there  was  a  finish  about  Duffus, 
and  his  faking  of  handwriting — well,  it  was  "  classy."  That 
was  all  that  could  be  said.  Many  thought  it  was  a  pity 
that  he  did  not  give  himself  entirely  to  that  high  craft. 
But  something  fascinating  about  locks  and  levers,  the  laying 
of  wires  on  dewy  gloaming  grass,  and  long  night  vigils 
preparatory  to  mounting  by  the  banisters  to  avoid  electric 
bells,  fascinated  Duffus  and  kept  him  on  the  main,  the  well- 
trodden  road  of  burglary. 

But — are  there  not  spots  in  the  sun?  Duffus  of  the  red 
tie  could  not  be  depended  on  to  stand  by  a  comrade.  In 
a  time  of  danger,  when  Knifer  would  have  been  in  the  fore- 
front— first  in  the  fray,  last  in  flight,  his  brown  neb-cap 
an  oriflamme,  Duffus  simply  was  not  there  at  all. 

353 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

He  disappeared — as  completely  as  if  he  had  the  capacity, 
traditionally  useful  in  his  calling,  of  rendering  himself  in- 
visible. But  no  "  thieves'  candle  "  held  in  any  dead  man's 
hand  could  have  equaled  in  marvel  the  disappearances  of 
Duffus.  They  were  the  talk  of  all  "  St.  Jacob's."  But  all 
the  same,  they  made  men  a  little  chary  of  working  with  him. 
If  so  be  the  piper  were  to  pay,  his  comrades  knew  well 
that  Duffus  would  not  be  there  to  foot  the  score. 

But  all  the  same,  they  were  no  children,  these  grim- 
featured,  close-shaven  outlaws  of  the  Northern  city.  There 
was  Daddy  Lennox,  grown  old  and  almost  respectable  in 
crime,  who  had  his  preferences  as  to  which  wing  of  the 
Calton  he  liked  being  put  into,  and  sometimes  condescended 
to  give  valuable  biographical  notes  upon  the  warders,  past 
and  present,  of  Perth  Penitentiary.  There  was  Corn  Beef 
Jo,  who  lacked  the  Knifer  to  keep  him  in  order.  All  were 
ready  to  look  after  themselves,  and — if  Duffus  proved  too 
"  slippy  " — well,  it  would  be  no  difficult  thing  to  put  a 
spoke  in  Duffus's  wheel.  They  conveyed  some  such  warning 
to  the  young  man,  to  which,  as  he  could  not  do  without 
them,  Duffus  paid  heed. 

"  This  is  my  plan,"  said  Duffus  without  taking  offense. 
And  at  these  words  there  fell  a  silence  that  might  have 
been  smelt — each  man  draining  his  glass  of  fusel-oil  whisky 
which  perfumed  the  sunk  flat,  so  that  a  passing  inspector 
of  cleaning  and  lighting  sniffed  ominously  and  vowed  that 
these  old  houses  on  Dean's  Brae,  between  that  and  "  Gib- 
raltar," must  be  seen  to  before  long — Professor  Geddie  or 
no  Professor  Geddie. 

"  Duffus's  plan !  "  was  the  toast.  They  composed  them- 
selves to  listen,  and  in  a  fit  of  abstraction  Corn  Beef  Jo 
helped  himself  twice  to  the  whisky,  which  finished  a  second 
bottle  neatly. 

354 


THE    LAST    RAID    OF    "BLIND    JACOB'S" 

"  Speak  up,  Duffus!  "  he  said  to  the  young  man  with  the 
brain  and  the  red  tie.    "  Silence  there  for  Duffus!  " 

But  the  veteran  Daddy  was  not  to  be  deceived. 

"  Hold  on,"  he  said,  "  Jo's  not  left  a  sup  o'  the  stuff 
in  the  heel  of  the  bottle.  Draw  another  cork,  lads,  and 
mind  he  pays  for  it !  " 

No  wonder  that  the  passing  sanitary  inspector  sniffed  and 
vowed  that  the  place  must  come  down.  It  was,  indeed, 
time. 

Then  Duffus,  after  long  weighing  pros  and  cons  in  his 
mind,  at  last  spoke: 

"  Three  Ridings  has  been  tried,  and  it  ended — well,  we 
know  how."  He  made  the  movement  of  a  man  about  whose 
neck  the  hangman's  rope  tightens  with  a  jerk.  The  fierce 
faces  about  him  nodded  gravely.  It  might  happen  to  them 
any  day.  They  made  their  living  on  these  terms.  But  not 
Duffus.  He  did  not  mean  to  die  anywhere  but  in  his  bed, 
and  that  he  would  put  off  as  long  as  possible. 

"  Humph,"  he  said  scornfully,  "  you're  brave,  I  know. 
And  you  hold  your  own  lives  as  cheap  as  you  do  that  of  the 
man  on  whom  you  make  a  little  evening  call.  But  what 
good  is  it  all,  I'd  like  to  know?  There's  been  bungling  and 
bungling — all  for  the  want  of  a  little  decent  headwork. 
Three  Ridings  tried  and  our  best  man's  head  in  the  noose. 
Egham  Castle,  with  all  the  nobby  things  collected  for  three 
hundred  years  there  for  the  lifting!  And  all  that  came 
of  it  is — a  kid  in  the  reformatory — a  kid,  too,  that  has  since 
got  off  for  doing  a  '  split ' !  " 

"  All  right,  Duffus,"  said  Daddy,  "  no  use  grousing  and 
grumbling!  We  done  our  best,  like  them  as  went  before  us. 
And  all  a  gentleman  can  say  is,  that  we  are  sorry  it  isn't 
better!    No  use  growling  at  us!  " 

"  Yes,  there  is,"  said  Duffus,  slapping  his  palm  flat  on 
355 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

the  table.  "  Three  Ridings  is  now  guarded  like  Edinburgh 
Castle — lodge  tiled,  outer  and  inner  guard  all  complete,  and 
that  long  Chocktaw  Injun  they  call  Hearne  Mackenzie 
with  an  armory  of  guns  ready  on  his  hip — a  nice  thing  for 
a  man  to  meet  going  upstairs  on  the  outside  of  the  banisters, 
and  his  heart  thumping  pit-a-pat  because  of  the  electric 
wires.  No,  Three  Ridings  is  not  our  game — not  mine,  at 
any  rate.  I  make  a  present  of  it  to  a  better  man.  But 
Egham,  now — that's  the  jockey!  Egham's  the  real  sausage 
and  mash.  They  will  think  it  is  safe  because  it  has 
been  tried  before,  and  only  for  papers,  mind  you.  Then 
the  old  fellow  never  keeps  anything  but  a  man-servant  or 
two.  He  has  not  even  replaced  Hammer,  the  old  butler, 
who  used  to  run  everything.  All  one  has  to  do  is  just  to  go 
in  with  a  bag,  fill  it  at  one's  leisure,  and  come  away  when 
ready — no  shooting,  no  shrieking  maids,  no  electric  traps  in 
such  an  old-fashioned  house — no  nothing — port  wine,  ready 
decanted,  on  the  sideboard.  Help  yourself  standing — free 
lunch  and  side  shows — biscuits  down  below  on  gold  plate, 
chests  of  silver  plate,  not  to  speak  of  family  jewels.  Who 
wants  to  stand  in  with  me?  Go  where  glory  calls — Egham 
or  Westminster  Abbey!  " 

They  all  would,  enthusiastically;  even  Corn  Beef  Jo, 
though  he  distrusted  Duffus  instinctively,  as  having  some- 
thing back  in  his  head  which  he  of  the  horse  face  could  not 
understand.  But  now,  the  coupe  certainly  seemed  of  the 
easiest,  as  described  by  Duffus.  The  red  tie's  enthusiasm 
carried  all  before  it.  Egham  Castle  it  was  to  be — Egham 
Castle  and  no  error! 

And  Egham  Castle,  after  weeks  of  spying,  it  was. 

Duffus  did  the  arranging.  He  watched  on  the  moor 
till  he  knew  by  heart  and  by  the  instinct  of  the  born 
malefactor,  all  the  comings  and  goings  of  the  neighbors.    For 

356 


THE    LAST    RAID    OF    "BLIND    JACOB'S" 

instance,  in  the  case  of  Egham  Castle,  it  was  necessary  to 
study  also  those  of  Hearne  Mackenzie,  who,  indeed,  con- 
stituted their  greatest  peril.  For  he  would  ride  over  at  any 
hour,  and  if  Pat  happened  to  be  at  Egham  with  her  sister, 
her  lover  had  been  known  to  ride  right  round  the  house 
after  midnight,  or  sit  his  horse  motionless  on  the  road  for 
half  an  hour  at  a  stretch,  looking  at  the  lights  going  out 
one  by  one  in  the  windows  of  the  bedroom  floor. 

Duffus,  therefore,  warned  by  this  unaccountable  young 
man,  chose  a  time  when  both  sisters  were  down  at  their 
father's — at  least,  they  were  certainly  absent  from  Egham 
Castle.  And,  as  Duffus  learned  from  a  too  talkative  scullery 
maid,  whose  parcels  he  carried  to  the  great  white  gate  from 
Kingside  Station,  they  were  not  expected  back  for  another 
week.  The  probabilities  were,  therefore,  that  Hearne  would 
not  be  so  recklessly  ready  to  risk  his  horse's  legs  and  his  own 
neck  across  the  deep  hags  and  treacherous  slime  pits  of  Maw 
Moss. 

The  night  was  fixed.  The  conspirators,  four  in  number, 
were  on  the  moor  at  nine  of  the  clock.  Duffus,  indeed,  had 
been  there  all  day.  The  others,  Corn  Beef  Jo,  Daddy 
Lennox,  and  Fighting  Nick  Brady  had  dropped  in,  more 
casual-like,  descending  unobtrusively  at  Kingside  and  other 
adjacent  stations,  from  which  they  had  to  walk  two  or  three 
miles  at  the  most. 

This  foursome  said  little.  Duffus  was  in  a  villainous 
temper,  having  had  to  stay  out  on  the  moor  all  day,  and  no 
one  having  thought  to  bring  him  anything  except  a  box  of 
matches  for  an  evening  meal.  They  listened  in  silence  to 
his  tongue  for  some  time,  and  then,  without  a  word,  Corn 
Beef  Jo  started  up  and,  going  almost  on  all  fours  and  keep- 
ing behind  the  intersecting  ditches  and  peaty  hummocks, 
he  returned   in  half   an  hour   with   half   a  loaf   of  bread, 

357 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

some  canned  meat  of  his  favorite  brand,  and — a  bottle  of 
beer. 

"  There,"  he  said  truculently.  "  And  now  be  good 
enough  to  stash  it !    We've  had  enough  of  your  mouth !  " 

The  twilight  began  to  close  in.  The  band  of  four,  with 
Duffus  now  fallen  silent  and  replete,  lay  watching  the  lights 
come  out  in  the  great  lonely  pile  of  Egham  Castle.  The 
whaup  sought  his  dewy  couch  with  his  usual  long-wailing 
diminuendo,  a  lament  for  the  dying  day.  The  pewits,  rest- 
less and  suspicious,  circled  closer  about.  Up  in  the  lift  a 
little  cloud  of  plovers,  gray  and  golden,  shifted  and  swirled. 
Stonechats  were  "checking"  on  every  bush.  The  shadows 
shifted  and  lengthened  so  that  a  head,  injudiciously  elevated, 
cast  the  shape  of  a  giant  athwart  the  yellow  and  gray  of 
the  bent. 

But  the  pick  of  "  St.  Jacob's  "  senatus  cared  for  none  of 
these  things.  Loot,  and  the  excitement  of  getting  it,  suf- 
ficiently occupied  their  minds.  They  were  not  very  anxious, 
only  pleasurably  excited.  But  they  listened  while  Duffus 
explained  to  them  that  all  the  plate  in  the  world  wasn't 
worth  being  hanged  for.  So  that,  if  they  were  trapped, 
it  was  their  duty  to  struggle  till  the  last,  to  use  every  wile — 
but  no  knives,  no  pistols!     Did  they  hear  that? 

The  four  listened,  and  after  he  had  finished,  Corn  Beef 
Jo  felt  for  his  leather  sheath,  to  make  sure  that  he  had  his 
ready  "  in  case."  The  hand  of  Daddy  Lennox  traveled  to 
his  hip — for  he  was  of  the  old  Charles  Peace  school  and 
still  carried  a  revolver — while  Fighting  Nick  Brady  clenched 
his  fist,  and  thanked  his  patron  saint — Nicholas  by  name — 
that  his  doubled  bunches  of  fives  would  be  sufficient  for  all 
practical  purposes,  even  without  the  American  "  dusting " 
contrivance  with  which  in  times  of  stress  he  could  garnish 
them. 

358 


THE    LAST    RAID    OF    "BLIND    JACOB'S" 

The  lights  came  up  here  and  there  in  the  great  dark- 
gray  wall  of  the  castle.  There  was  no  regular  dinner  at 
Egham  Castle  when  the  young  ladies  were  not  at  home. 
This  Duffus  knew,  and  he  explained  clearly  to  his  accom- 
plices what  would,  and  as  a  matter  of  fact  did,  happen. 

Only  a  plate  or  two  would  go  up  to  the  forlorn  old  pair 
in  the  drawing-room.  These  would  be  sent  down  practically 
untouched.  In  the  hall  William  and  the  servants  regaled 
themselves  on  cold  meat,  pickles,  and  stout.  That  was 
where  the  greatest  light  came  from.  If  you  tiptoed  near  and 
glanced  in,  you  could  see  high  jinks  and  listen  to  the  sounds 
of  merriment.  The  scullery  maid  had  offered  to  introduce 
Duffus  to  the  servants'  hall — a  well-appearing  young  man, 
Duffus — as  her  cousin  or  brother,  whichever  he  preferred. 
Then  he  could  have  a  share  of  the  fun.  But  like  a  prudent 
lad  Duffus  had  declined.  Duffus  kept  business  and  pleasure 
distinct  and  apart.  He  would  see  her  some  day  in  Princess 
Street,  he  said.  From  this  the  scullery  maid  conceived  a 
great  opinion  of  Duffus — so  haughty! 

Then  the  lights  began  to  go  out.  First  in  the  drawing- 
room.  The  "  atomies  "  were  being  conveyed  to  their  room. 
They  were  being  undressed.  Now  they  were  being 
read  to  by  William  and  one  of  the  maids,  who,  having  an 
English  accent,  had  been  specially  selected  for  the  purpose. 

Finally  the  lights  mounted  higher.  All  the  lower  part 
of  the  house — the  ground  floor,  the  first  and  second  floors — 
were  in  perfect  darkness.  Above  in  the  attics  the  servants 
were  retiring.  The  maids  were  in  the  east  wing,  William 
and  a  couple  of  underlings  directly  over  Mr.  Boreham- 
Egham,  so  that  a  bell  rope  might  hang  down  the  wall  in 
a  hollow  tube  into  his  master's  room,  and  a  great  green  tassel 
tickle  the  barren  scalp  swathed  in  its  close-fitting  night  cap. 

The  maids'  lights  went  out  promptly.  It  was  half-past 
359 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

ten.  William's  lingered  a  little  longer,  but  all  was  quiet 
before  eleven — everything  exactly  to  a  dot  as  Duffus  of 
the  red  tie  had  foretold. 

Egham  Castle  stood  out  against  the  sky,  a  stern  and 
somber  mass,  solid  as  the  everlasting  hills,  apparently  unin- 
habited and  uninhabitable.  The  four  out  on  the  moor  were, 
indeed,  not  susceptible  to  impressions  such  as  these.  But 
they  were  glad  that  the  lights  were  safely  out,  that  there 
had  been  no  illness,  no  sending  off  for  doctors,  no  general 
movement  throughout  the  castle  in  search  of  drugs,  such 
as  had  sometimes  spoiled  the  best-laid  schemes  of  mice  and 
burglars — as  sayeth  the  poet. 

Duffus  advised  a  wait  of  a  full  hour  at  least,  to  let  the 
inhabitants  effectually  settle  down.  Had  they  not  the  night 
before  them,  and  so  on — ten  minutes  of  Duffus's  cautious 
advice  while  the  men  fidgeted  with  their  tools,  and  thought 
over  in  their  minds  the  several  roles  they  were  to  play. 

"Now!" 

Four  shadows  moved  across  the  moor  as  silently  as  men 
of  the  city  can  over  any  country  place.  The  Moss  of  Maw 
was  no  joke  even  in  the  daytime,  and  the  working  kit  of 
four  acting  professors  of  the  college  of  "  St.  Jacob's  "  makes 
some  noise  if  it  falls.  They  followed  Duffus  with  care,  ad- 
monishing each  other  with  brief  whispered  severity,  every 
time  a  foot  slipped  or  a  jimmy  tinkled. 

With  a  sigh  of  relief  they  came  out  upon  the  great  lawn 
in  front  of  the  mansion.  The  double  stairs  leading  to  the 
front  door,  being  on  the  Italian  model,  appeared  like  a 
shadowy  pyramid  built  against  the  front  of  the  house.  Here 
and  there  on  the  lawn,  scientifically,  they  began  rapidly  to 
put  in  the  pegs,  for  the  wires  which  were  to  trip  up  the 
pursuers,  if  any  should  appear.  This  was  the  task  of 
Fighting  Nick   and   Corn   Beef  Jo — Daddy   Lennox   being 

360 


THE    LAST    RAID    OF    "BLIND    JACOB'S" 

excused  on  account  of  his  age,  and  Duffus  because  he  "  had 
a  head  on  his  shoulders."  Besides  he  had  already  done  his 
share  in  watching. 

Duffus  of  the  red  tie  rubbed  his  hands  and  felt  himself 
already  the  victor.  He  knew  where  the  Egham  strong  box 
was  kept.  It  was  an  ancient  construction.  He  could  have 
opened  it  blindfolded.  There  was  no  danger  anywhere. 
The  other  three  gathered  about  him  for  their  final  orders. 
Duffus  had  begun  to  speak  in  a  whisper  when,  suddenly, 
from  room  to  room  of  the  first  floor,  a  candle  began  to 
promenade. 

No  shadow  was  cast  upon  the  blinds.  No  sound  was 
heard.  There  was  no  disturbance  of  the  mansion.  From  sky- 
light to  basement,  the  whole  great  house  was  plain  mirk, 
save  for  this  solitary  candle,  as  it  were,  taking  a  walk  by 
itself. 

Then  all  at  once  they  remembered  that  in  the  evidence 
of  Hearne  Mackenzie  he  declared  that  he  had  seen  a  similar 
sight  on  the  night  when  his  father  had  been  found  with 
Knifer  Jackson's  blade  in  his  throat.  He,  too,  had  heard 
nothing — seen  nothing — save  only  this  solitary  candle  going 
to  and  fro  in  a  lone  and  dreadful  house! 

Now,  such  men  are  exceedingly  and  necessarily  super- 
stitious. Duffus  and  Daddy  Lennox  would  have  turned  and 
fled  without  inquiry.  Fighting  Nick  Brady  stood  irresolute, 
not  knowing  whether  to  give  the  thing  up  or  no.  But  not 
so  Corn  Beef  Jo.  He  had  been  present  at  too  many  failures, 
and,  next  to  Knifer  Jackson,  he  was  counted  the  most  reck- 
less of  all  the  "St.  Jacob's  "  band. 

"  Whether  it  is  a  ghost,  or  only  the  old  cripple  walking 
in  his  sleep,  let  Duffus  open  the  door,  and  I'll  go  up  and 
see,"  said  Corn  Beef  Jo  doggedly.    "  I'm  too  near  the  dollars 
to  go  back  again  without  getting  my  fingers  upon  them." 
24  361 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

But,  in  spite  of  his  brave  words,  it  took  Jo  some  time  be- 
fore he  could  bring  himself  to  mount  the  staircase.  The 
silence  of  the  great  house  daunted  him — the  thought,  too,  of 
what  he  might  find !  Why  had  young  Mackenzie  sworn  to 
just  such  a  candle  being  carried  about  in  the  house  of  Three 
Ridings? 

Corn  Beef  Jo  was  not  afraid,  but  though  Knifer  Jack- 
son's blade  was  found  hafted  in  the  dead  lord's  neck,  every 
man  of  them  knew  that  it  was  never  Knifer  Jackson  who 
carried  that  candle ! 

Who,  then,  could  be  the  bearer  of  this  one? 

It  was  then  that  the  "  man  "  came  out,  according  as 
it  is  placed  in  each  individual.  There  was  something  in 
Corn  Beef  Jo — cold,  cruel,  and  without  bowels  as  he  was — 
which  yet,  by  his  very  lack  of  imagination,  placed  him  above 
the  others  at  this  juncture.     He  had  "  sand." 

Duffus,  with  trembling  fingers,  undid  the  little  side 
door.  It  opened  into  a  passage,  in  which  lingered  a  faint 
smell  of  stale  lamp  oil  and  boot  polish. 

"  I  suppose,"  muttered  Corn  Beef  Jo  bitterly,  "  what- 
ever happens,  I've  got  to  depend  on  myself!  None  o'  you 
looks  good  enough  to  back  me!  Ah,  if  I  only  had  the 
Knifer  here!  " 

"  If  it  were  only  a  man,  Jo,"  said  Fighting  Nick  shaking 
all  over,  "  but  a  ghost — a  spirit — perhaps  a  hand  without 
any  body  going  about  holding  a  candle!  " 

"  Hands  without  any  body  won't  do  me  any  harm,"  said 
Corn  Beef  Jo  contemptuously.    "  I'm  going  up — now!  " 

And  he  went,  his  knife  ready  in  one  hand,  halting  at 
each  creak  of  the  staircase.  With  awe  in  their  hearts  and 
a  curious  dryness  in  their  mouths  the  three  stood  back  a 
little,  leaving  the  door  open,  so  as  to  give  Corn  Beef  Jo 
a   chance.      The   candle   still    continued    to   promenade    to 

362 


THE    LAST    RAID    OF    "BLIND    JACOB'S" 

and  fro  steadily,  and  as  it  seemed  methodically,  from  room 
to  room.  The  bearer  appeared  to  be  performing  an  ac- 
customed task,  and  for  a  long  time  the  entrance  of  Corn 
Beef  Jo  made  no  difference. 

"  He  must  have  seen  it  by  now,  eh,  Daddy?  "  said  Duf- 
fus  in  a  bated  whisper. 

"  Perhaps  77  has  struck  him  dead — I've  heard  o'  such 
things!  "  said  Daddy  who  was  nothing  if  not  historical. 

"Perhaps  worse — mad!"  rectified  Fighting  Nick  who 
felt  that  this  was  no  place  for  him.  His  biceps  would  do 
him  small  good  here. 

But  still  no  Corn  Beef  Jo  appeared,  and  the  waiters 
without  began  to  grow  anxious.  An  hour  passed  and  no  Jo ! 
Not  a  sign  in  the  great  silent  mansion.  Dawn  would  soon 
be  coming  up  out  of  the  East  from  behind  the  fir  trees  on 
the  moor,  and  the  three  watchers  began  to  grow  mightily 
uneasy.  The  feeling  was  vague  at  first,  but  continued  to 
increase.  Duffus  held  his  watch  toward  the  East,  which 
was  just  beginning  to  glow  faintly  rose. 

"  We  will  give  him  another  quarter  of  an  hour,"  he 
whispered,  and  Daddy  and  Fighting  Nick,  glad  of  the  respite, 
stepped  back  a  little  into  the  shadow  of  the  laurel  bushes. 

But  they  had  not  so  long  to  wait.  As  it  seemed,  an  army 
of  gamekeepers  and  foresters  rose  out  of  the  ground  all 
about  them.  Fighting  Nick  got  in  one  or  two  before  he 
was  oppressed  by  numbers.  Duffus  attempted  to  make  his 
usual  dash  for  liberty,  but  this  time  all  his  litheness  could 
not  save  him.  Chisholm,  the  head  keeper,  had  him  safe  in 
"chancery" — most  unhappy  he  was  while  there!  Daddy 
Lennox  tried  to  entertain  the  head  forester  with  reminis- 
cences, but  was  told  to  "  dry-up-and-come-along  " — all  pro- 
nounced as  one  word. 

But  at  this  date  nothing  was  heard  from  Corn  Beef  Jo, 
363 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

who,   the  bravest  of  the  brave,  had  entered  the  house  of 
Egham  to  solve  the  mystery  of  the  wandering  candle. 

What  Head  Keeper  Chisholm  knew  about  it  he  related 
the  next  day  at  least  fourteen  times  with  various  additions 
and  modifications.  This,  told  to  the  Kingside  schoolmaster, 
is  believed  to  be  the  earliest  and  most  authentic  version : 

"  I  was  lying  in  my  bed,"  said  the  keeper,  "  wonderin'  if 
Niagara  itsel'  could  mak'  mair  noise  than  Mistress  Chisholm 
— that's  my  wife — when  she  lies  flat  on  her  back,  and,  as 
it  were,  gies  her  mind  to  the  snorin' !  When  a'  on  a  sudden 
I  heard  a  voice,  like  a  voice  frae  the  deid — '  Chisholm — 
Chisholm  ' — it  said.  An'  for  a  minute  I  thocht  it  was  auld 
Hammer  corned  to  send  me  some  errand  for  the  doctor — 
me  no  minding  that  the  puir  creature  was  droonded  and  his 
body  fand  tossing  as  if  it  had  been  cork  atween  the  muckle 
Bass  and  the  Isle  o'  May!  '  Chisholm — Chisholm!  '  it  cried 
again.  My  teeth  fair  chattered  as  I  lifted  the  window  and 
looked  oot.  They  micht  hae  saved  their  trouble,  for  no  a 
thing  could  I  see — bena  the  black  tree  branches  an'  a  stern 
or  twa  glintin'  cannily  doon  through  the  chinks. 

"  '  Chisholm — Chisholm!  You  are  to  rise! '  said  a  voice 
— the  voice  o'  the  deid,  sir,  and  the  sweat  brak'  cauld  upon 
me  frae  neck  to  heel.  Then  strength  was  given  me  and  I 
answered  as  bauld  as  the  minister  wi'  the  Open  Buik  afore 
him.  '  I'll  rise  nane  till  I  ken  better  wha  I  hae  to  do  wi'! ' 
Me  bein'  on  my  feet  at  the  time,  an'  my  sark  flappin'  ahint 
me  like  a  flag  on  the  pigeon  tower  upon  the  mornin'  o'  the 
Queen's  birthday.  '  Then,'  said  the  voice  that  was  like  the 
voice  o'  the  deid,  '  gather  all  the  lads — take  weapons — there's 
a  burglar  locked  in  the  strong  room  at  the  castle,  and  three 
others  at  the  cellar  door.  See  and  grip  them  all!  If  you 
miss  them — then  beware — I  shall  come  back ! ' 

364 


THE    LAST    RAID    OF    "BLIND    JACOB'S" 

"  Sae  wi'  that  I  gat  me  up  and  took  my  gun  ower  my 
shoother.  I  ran  to  the  bothy  to  get  the  lads.  And  sure 
enough  we  grippit  three  o'  the  vaigabonds  at  the  cellar  door, 
and  the  fourth  was  in  the  strong  room  where  the  papers  are 
keepit!  Though  what  the  mischief  he  was  doin'  there,  and 
the  key  turned  i'  the  lock  ootside — nane  can  tell  but  the 
voice  that  spak'  to  me  in  at  the  window  o'  my  ain  hoose,  and 
never  as  muckle  as  steered  the  mistress !  She  snored  on — for 
a'  the  world  like  unto  Niagara!  Oh,  it's  a  fine  thing  to 
get  the  soond  sleep !     Eh,  sirs,  aye  ? 

"  The  lads  were  a'  unkenned  to  us,"  continued  Chisholm, 
"  but  as  soon  as  the  chief  o'  poliss  ran  his  eye  ower  them,  he 
kenned  brawly,  for  he  said,  daffin'  like,  that  the  hale  goodly 
fellowship  o'  '  St.  Jacob's  '  was  there !  Then  the  auld  man, 
that  lookit  like  a  beadle  and  the  captain — I  declare  if  they 
didna  start  crackin'  aboot  hooses  that  had  been  robbit  thirty 
years  syne,  and  fowk  that  were  lang  hanged,  that  cosh  and 
friendly  like  I  was  feared  he  wasna  gaun  to  put  him  in  the 
goal  at  a' !     But  he  did,  a'  richt. 

"  But  the  man  that  was  fand  lockit  up  i'  the  strong 
room  was  the  maist  dazed  o'  a'.  He  either  couldna  or 
wadna  say  a  word  as  to  how  he  cam'  to  be  there!  But  I'll 
tell  ye  plain,  lads,  I  dinna  want  yon  voice  frae  the  deid 
cryin'  at  my  winnock  sole  in  a  hurry  again!  " 

Nevertheless,  let  it  not  be  doubted,  that  if  the  tongue 
of  Corn  Beef  Jo  had  been  willing  to  speak  that  which  his 
eyes  had  seen,  he  could  have  told  Chisholm  and  a  few  others 
something  very  remarkable  indeed. 


365 


CHAPTER  XXVII 


THE   NEW       B.   I.   P. 


HE  one  notable  effect  of  the  final  raid  of  the 
forces  of  "  Blind  Jacob's  "  upon  the  castle 
was  that  what  little  spark  of  life  remained 
in  the  poor  rickety  framework  of  Mr.  Bore- 
ham-Egham  was  frightened  away  by  the 
events  of  that  night — the  stealthy  feet,  the  irruption  of 
armed  men,  perhaps  something  else  then  altogether  unguessed 
at.  The  old  man  was  found  dead  next  morning  in  his  bed, 
without  a  mark  of  violence  on  his  poor  made-up  body,  but 
with  his  eyes  staring  steadily  in  the  direction  of  the  curtain 
which  covered  the  inner  door.  His  companion  automaton 
survived  just  four  days — the  great  sixty-foot  drawing-room 
having  grown  too  lonesome  without  that  other  armchair 
to  wheel  opposite  to  hers.  So  without  more  ado  Mrs.  Bore- 
ham-Egham  followed  her  husband  to  that  select  corner  of 
heaven  where  they  make  you  prove  four  clear  descents,  all 
noble,  before  they  let  you  in.  At  any  rate  she  died,  and 
Baby  Lant,  the  day  after  the  second  funeral,  was  greeted  by 
Mr.  Searle,  of  Searle  &  Dalmahoy,  W.  S.,  as  the  un- 
questioned heiress  of  Egham  Castle  and  of  all  the  Egham 
estates. 

"  You  are  your  own  mistress  at  twenty-one,  my  dear 
366 


THE    NEW    "B.    I.    P." 

young  lady,"  said  Mr.  Searle  affectingly.    "  I  trust  you  will 
not  find  your  time  of  tutelage  too  hard !  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Searle,"  answered  Baby  Lant. 
"  I  am  my  own  mistress  now — I  always  have  been.  And  as 
I  shall  be  twenty-one  next  week,  I  shall  not  give  you  much 
additional   responsibility !  " 

"  Bless  me,  do  you  tell  me  so?  "  cried  the  startled  man 
of  law.  "  We  must  begin  preparing  the  papers  at  once.  I 
trust — I  trust —  I  dare  say  that  you  are  familiar  with  the 
long  services  which  our  firm,  dating  back  for  many  genera- 
tions, has  been  able  to  render  to  the  family  of  Boreham- 
Egham!     I  trust  that " 

"  Oh,  I  have  no  intention  of  interfering — so  long  as  you 
don't  bother  me,  or  try  to  '  boss '  me"  said  Baby  Lant. 
"  Besides,  I  think  you  are  also  lawyers  for  Lord  Athabasca?  " 

"And  to  his  father  before  him!  "  said  the  lawyer,  now 
reassured  and  gathering  up  his  papers  with  smiling  ease. 

"  I  meant  his  father,"  said  Miss  Atalanta  Boreham- 
Egham.     "  Of  course  you  might  have  known  that!  " 

The  lawyer,  a  suave  bald-headed  man,  smiled  blandly. 

"Am  I  then  to  understand  that — ?"  he  began.  And 
then  hesitated  before  completing  his  question. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  that  it's  settled!"  said  Baby  Lant 
hurriedly.  "  Pat  declares  she  won't  marry  him  till  it  is  all 
cleared  up  about  the  murder  of  his  father!  " 

"  But  I  think  it  is,"  said  the  lawyer.  "  There  need 
be  no  difficulty.  I  have  it  on  the  best  authority  that  the 
reprieve  granted  to  the  criminal  Jackson  is  purely  nominal, 
to  allow  time  for  the  effect  of  his  wife's  pretended  con- 
fession to  disappear.  There  is  not  the  least  doubt  that 
the  woman  lied  to  save  her  husband !  " 

"  So  should  I !  "  cried  Baby  Lant.  "  That  is,  if  I  could 
find  a  man  worth  lying  for!  " 

367 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

"  You  will  have  the  offer  of  plenty,  at  least,"  said  the 
lawyer,  bowing  again.  "  Yes,  Miss  Boreham-Egham,  I 
can  promise  you  that." 

"If  you  think  I  had  not  that  before,  you  much  deceive 
yourself!  "  said  Baby  Lant  blandly.  She  could  not  pretend 
greatly  to  regret  her  uncle  and  aunt.  Indeed,  only  the 
great  stone  figures  of  grief  over  the  Boreham-Egham  mauso- 
leum in  the  park  appeared'  at  all  affected.  They  held  marble 
handkerchiefs  to  their  eyes,  the  same  which  had  been  there 
for  a  hundred  and  fifty  years,  so  that  even  their  grief  for 
Philip  Egbert  and  his  wife  could  not  be  said  to  be  very 
personal. 

But  as  the  lawyer  appeared  really  anxious  to  be  friendly, 
even  apart  from  the  interests  of  his  firm,  Baby  Lant  took 
him  so  far  into  her  confidence  as  to  charge  him  with  a  very 
delicate  negotiation  indeed. 

Marthe  and  her  husband  would  not  take  a  penny  of  her 
money.  Of  that  she  was  well  assured.  It  was  necessary 
to  find  some  way  by  which  they  could  benefit  to  something 
like  the  extent  of  their  needs.  For  love's  sake  Marthe  had 
elected  to  be  poor,  but  there  was  no  need  for  her  being  too 
poor.  She  might  continue  to  make  her  own  frocks.  Well, 
nobody  wanted  her  to  stop  that.  She  had  always  done  so, 
and  they  had  always  fitted  her  like  her  own  smooth  brown 
skin. 

But  an  extra  servant,  a  month  or  five  weeks  at  the  sea- 
side for  Willie,  the  baby,  and  herself — a  few  such  things 
would  make  all  the  difference. 

The  lawyer  wrinkled  his  brow  and  thought.  Then  he 
put  a  question.  It  seemed  a  curious  one,  and  very  far  away 
from  the  subject  in  hand. 

"  Of  course  there  are  banks  in  Kirkmessan,"  he  said. 
"  I  believe  it  is  a  thriving  sort  of  place  with  a  weekly  cattle 

368 


THE    NEW    "B.    I.    P." 

market,  so  there  are  bound  to  be.  Do  any  of  the  agents  go 
to — ah — I  mean  attend  your  brother-in-law's  church  ?  " 

"Let  me  see?"  meditated  Baby  Lant,  who  was  not 
.ecclesiastically  minded.  "Yes — one  of  them — Mr.  McCal- 
lum  of  the  Bank  of  Scotland.  He  is,  I  think,  session 
clerk." 

"  McCallum— yes,  McCallum,"  meditated  Mr.  Searle. 
"  Why,  the  very  man.  I  think  he  has  done  some  business 
for  us  down  there.  At  any  rate  I  can  get  at  him  through 
his  general  manager,  who  is  a  personal  friend  of  mine." 

"  Oh,  Willie  and  Marthe,  would  not  take  the  money 
like  that!  "  cried  Baby  Lant  alarmed,  "  besides,  they  would 
be  very  hurt  to  think  that  I  had  told  anyone  that  they  were 
poor." 

Wary  Mr.  Searle,  who  was  ecclesiastically  minded, 
smiled  and  waved  his  hand  blandly  toward  his  client.  It 
was  not  thus  that  Searle  &  Dalmahoy,  W.  S.,  did  business. 

"  Have  no  fear,  my  dear  young  lady,"  he  said,  "  I  can 
arrange  all  that,  if  you  will  just  leave  it  to  me.  I  guarantee 
that  neither  Mr.  Symington  nor  his  wife  will  know  any- 
thing about  it.  They  will  think  it  a  natural  tribute  from 
their  appreciative  congregation!  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a 
Local  Endowment  Scheme?  " 

"Never!"  said  Baby  Lant  clearly  and  plainly.  He 
might  as  well  have  asked  her  if  she  had  ever  heard  of  the 
moon  craters  by  name — Plato,  Gassendi,  Copernicus  and  the 
rest  of  them — of  Goombridge  30,  that  runaway  sun  on  a 
tear  through  space,  or  of  any  other  of  the  things  which 
constituted  the  unknown  to  the  pretty  head  of  Baby  Lant. 

The  lawyer  explained  at  length,  somewhat  as  follows: 

In  cases  where  there  was  a  large  and  thriving  congre- 
gation— as  he  understood  that  of  Mr. — ah — Symington's 
was,   the  office  bearers,   including  the  elders  and   deacons, 

369 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

were  in  the  habit  of  adding  to  their  minister's  income  by 
forming  an  Additional  Endowment  Fund,  the  total  proceeds 
of  which  went  to  augment  the  minister's  income. 

He  (Mr.  Searle)  might  add  that  he  was  an  office  bearer, 
in  West  St.  Shandwick's  himself,  and  he  certainly  ought  to 
know  something  about  the  matter.  Let  Miss  Atalanta — so 
far  he  had  progressed — leave  the  affair  with  him.  There 
would  be  organized  in  the  Martyrs'  Congregation  of  Kirk- 
messan  such  a  fund  as  that  of  which  he  had  spoken,  and  by 
means  of  the  treasurer  and  session  clerk,  an  anonymous  donor 
— whose  name  need  never  be  mentioned — would  make  the 
amount  up  to  say  £250.  For  the  present  he  did  not  recom- 
mend more  than  that,  as  a  larger  supplement  from  a  country 
congregation  might  cause  astonishment  and  envy. 

"All  right!"  said  Baby  Lant  cheerfully.  "But  mind, 
they  are  not  to  know.  If  they  do,  I  shall  have  to  find  an- 
other lawyer,  that's  all !  " 

But  she  smiled  as  she  said  it. 

And  Mr.  Searle,  bowing  again,  remarked  in  his  suavest 
tones,  "  In  that  case  our  firm  will  have  the  happiness  of  at- 
tending to  your  affairs  for  a  very  lengthened  period  indeed." 

The  second  use  that  Baby  Lant  made  of  her  money 
was  to  intimate,  always  through  Messrs.  Searle  &  Dalma- 
hoy,  that  an  anonymous  donor  had  placed  the  sum  of 
£10,000  in  the  Bank  of  Scotland  for  the  purpose  of  being 
applied  to  the  needs  of  the  Cowgate  Mission,  free  from  all 
control  save  the  sole  will  and  pleasure  of  Mr.  Archbold 
Molesay,  missionary  there. 

It  came  upon  the  little  man  like  a  thunderclap. 

To  build  was  a  slow  process.  Oh,  if  only  he  had  a 
nucleus!  And  the  Providence  which  sometimes  takes  a 
turn  at  spoiling  the  sons  of  men,  arranged  that  at  this 
very  time  the  great  Ogg,  Bashen's  king,  the  proprietor  of 

370 


THE    NEW    "B.    I.    P." 

the  British  Imperial  Palace,  should  fall  like  Lucifer  clear 
out  of  the  sky  of  morning. 

He  awoke  one  day,  rather  late,  reached  out  his  hand 
for  his  "  Thistle"  saw  a  certain  marked  downward  tend- 
ency in  a  stock  in  which  he  was  interested  far  beyond 
anything  that  was  legitimate  in  his  position.  But,  as 
usual,  he  had  the  straight  tip — that  "  tip  "  whose  fatal 
rectilinearity  has  ruined  more  than  three  centuries  of  fire, 
shipwreck,  and  the  visitation  of  God.  He  hurried  down- 
stairs, sent  off  telegram  after  telegram  telling  his  broker 
to  hold  on — then  to  buy  more — and  by  the  eventide  was 
a  ruined  man. 

The  B.  I.  P.  was  for  sale. 

Then  a  great  thought  flashed  along  Mr.  Molesay's 
brain,  and  flushed  his  cheek.  If  only  human  nature,  espe- 
cially Cowgate  human  nature,  had  been  just  a  little  better 
he  would  have  bought  the  B.  I.  P. — license,  good  will  and 
all — and  made  it  a  model  public  house.  He  thought  of  him- 
self and  Billy  Earsman  serving  out  refreshments,  in  a  snowy 
apron  apiece.  Then  the  dance  room  and  little  theater  be- 
hind— what  meetings  would  they  not  have  there !  New  com- 
binations, new  entertainments — all  with  the  idea  of  grip- 
ping and  holding  his  errant  flock  and  exceedingly  prodigal 
children,  followed  each  other  through  the  little  missionary's 
brain. 

But  in  the  morning  he  saw  that  it  would  not  do.  Things 
being  as  they  were,  a  minister  of  the  Nazarene  could  not 
hold  a  public  house.  "  Temperance  refreshments  "  as  a  sign- 
board would  be  enough  to  turn  every  Cowgater  from  his 
door.  But  the  buildings — the  situation — the  many  exits! 
Why,  the  people  would  walk  in  from  very  force  of  habit. 
It  was,  of  course,  a  valuable  property.  But  Mr.  Molesay 
had  several  conferences  with  the  lord  provost  and  with  Cap- 

371 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

tain  Henderland.  Strange  how  things  get  about!  It  came 
to  be  rumored  that  in  no  case  would  the  license  of  the 
B.  I.  P.  be  renewed,  now  that  Ogg — fled  the  country — was 
practically  no  more! 

The  B.  I.  P.  went  to  Mr.  Archbold  Molesay  for  the 
very  moderate  sum  of  £5,000!  He  had  therefore  the  same 
amount  left  for  alterations  and  new  buildings.  He  would 
get  a  good  deal  more  from  the  sale  of  his  old  premises.  The 
missionary  could  hardly  sleep  at  nights  for  thinking  what 
he  would  do.  First  of  all  he  decided  that  he  would  not 
change  the  name.  It  would  not  be  "  Christian  institution  " 
or  Christian  anything.  For  Mr.  Molesay  had  observed  that 
the  word,  the  noblest  adjective  in  the  world,  affected  even 
the  circulation  of  journals,  and  kept  the  average  man  away 
from  the  doors  of  halls  over  which  it  was  carved  or  gilded. 
No,  the  British  Imperial  Palace  it  had  been — the  British 
Imperial  Palace  it  should  remain  while  it  and  the  Cowgate 
lasted. 

But  low  in  his  heart  Mr.  Molesay  said,  "  Not  my 
palace — God  forbid,  but  the  palace  of  One  who  had  no- 
where to  lay  His  head!  " 

Long  ere  this  Ogg  was  crossing  the  ocean  with  a  thou- 
sand pounds  in  gold,  which  he  had  kept  by  him  for  a  rainy 
day,  stowed  snugly  in  the  corner  of  his  trunk.  He  did  not 
sleep  well,  however,  lest  he  should  find  a  detective  waiting 
for  him  on  the  tug  which  brought  out  the  reporters  to  inter- 
view the  greatest-and-only-up-to-date  sausage  manufacturer 
in  the  world. 

Mr.  Molesay,  also,  did  not  sleep,  wondering  what  he 
would  do  with  that  last  £1,500.  There  were  so  many  things 
he  wanted — so  many  things  the  Cowgate  wanted — so  many 
things  he  could  do  with  the  B.  I.  P. 

Also  in  her  pretty  first  floor  Kate  Earsman  cried  all 
372 


THE    NEW    "B.    I.    P." 

night,  with  her  arm  about  her  husband's  neck,  while  the 
great  fellow  gulped  and  told  her  not  to — at  the  worst  he 
could  always  go  to  the  tunnel  and  do  navvying. 

Joy  cometh  in  the  morning.  At  least  it  did  that  time 
for  the  barman  and  his  wife.  It  arrived  in  the  shape  of  a 
black-coated,  disgracefully  hatted,  well-beloved  little  man 
with  silvery  hair.  He  found  Kate  with  red  eyes  frying 
something  extra  to  tempt  Billy  to  his  uneaten  breakfast. 
Billy  Earsman  had  got  on  very  well  with  Ogg.  Ogg  had 
never  "  tried  it  on  "  with  Billy.  He  knew  better.  And 
now,  all  of  a  sudden,  the  bottom  had  dropped  out  of  the 
big  man's  world;  what  was  worse,  out  of  his  wife's. 

"  See  here,  Kate,"  said  the  little  savior  of  society  in  the 
Cowgate,  "  I  want  you  to  persuade  that  man  of  yours  that 
he  can  work  for  me  as  well  as  for  Ogg.  I  know  he  was 
fond  of  Ogg.  But  the  British  Imperial  Palace  is  mine  now, 
and  it  will  need  some  handling,  I  can  tell  you.  I  want  a 
big  man,  strong  and  willing,  with  a  clean  and  good-hearted 
wife  to  attend  to  it  and  to  the  people  that  come  to  my  palace. 
In  fact,  I  want  Billy  Earsman  and  his  wife,  Kate!  They 
will  have  Ogg's  house  on  the  third  floor,  two  pounds  ten  a 
week,  coal  and  gas.  It's  not  much,  I  know,  but  it's  as  much 
as  I  can  afford " 

He  did  not  get  further,  for  Kate  suddenly  flung  down 
the  fork  with  which  she  was  turning  the  fry  in  the  pan, 
took  three  steps  toward  the  little  missionary  as  if  she,  too, 
were  about  to  clasp  him  in  her  arms.  Then  suddenly  com- 
ing to  herself,  she  halted,  picked  up  her  morning  apron 
by  the  corners  and  sobbed  into  it.  Billy  watched  her  open- 
mouthed. 

"  Ye  must  excuse  her,"  he  said  at  last ;  "  she  has  been 
knocked  endways  wi'  thinkin'  that  it  was  all  up  with  us 
— me  losin'  my  place  and  so  on.     A'  nonsense,  of  course, 

373 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

for  a  strong  chap  and  a  willin'  man  can  a' ways  find  work 
— of  a  kind.     But — you  know  women,  sir." 

Little  Mr.  Molesay  was  about  as  ignorant  of  them  as 
a  man  can  be,  yet,  though  a  truthful  man,  he  assented  with 
a  smiling  nod. 

"  Well,  now  then,  Billy,"  he  said,  suddenly  reverting 
to  his  original  subject,  "  is  it  a  go?  Yes  or  no?  Will  you 
come?  " 

Billy  hung  his  head. 

"  If  you  don't  think  I'd  be  a  disgrace  to  the  place,  sir," 
he  said,  slowly  spacing  out  the  words.  "  Some  o'  them 
might  get  askin'  for  a  pint  o'  beer,  and — well,  if  they  gied 
me  ony  o'  their  sauce — I  micht  be  tempted  to  throw  them  on 
the  street!  " 

"  I  will  risk  it,"  said  Mr.  Molesay.  "  And  for  a  while, 
till  we  get  in  order,  Kate  can  look  after  the  refreshment 
department,  with  a  decent  lass  to  help  her.  Coffee,  with 
bread  and  butter,  a  penny.  Coffee,  milk,  bread,  butter,  and 
cheese,  a  good  meal — twopence!     How's  that,  Billy?" 

"Bless  us — and  your  'make' — your  profit,  I  mean!" 
explained  the  astonished  Billy.  "  Why  at  that  rate  you 
will  have  hard  work  to  pay  your  running  expenses!  " 

"All  right,"  said  Mr.  Molesay  smiling;  "I  can  do  it. 
That  is,  with  Kate  to  help  me,  and  you,  Billy,  for  doorman 
and  order  keeper " 

Here  Billy  brisked  up  visibly,  all  at  once  looking  much 
happier. 

"  Keep  order?  "  he  inquired  in  a  changed  voice.  "  Would 
you  be  wanting  me  to  keep  order  for  ye,  sir?  " 

And  he  actually  began  to  roll  up  his  sleeves  on  the  spot. 

"  Yes,"  sighed  Mr.  Molesay.  "  You  know  the  Cowgate 
as  well  as  I  do.  There  is  a  proportion  of  chaff  among  the 
wheat.    The  British  Imperial  Palace  shall  be  open  and  wel- 

374 


THE    NEW    "B.    I.    P." 

come  to  all.     And  I  dare  say  that  if  even  the  worst  attend 
and  behave  themselves,  they  may  be  helped  of  God !  " 

"  And  if  they  do  not  behave  themselves,"  thundered 
Billy  Earsman — late  chucker-out  at  Ogg's — "  then  God 
help  them!  " 

"  Hush,  Billy,"  said  the  little  missionary;  "we  will  try 
the  softer  methods  first.  The  fruits  of  the  Spirit,  you  know, 
are  love,  joy,  peace,  long-suffering,  gentleness,  goodness, 
faith,  meekness,  temperance — against  such  there  is  no  law!  " 

"  They're  scarce  i'  the  Cowgate,  Mr.  Molesay,  them 
things,"  said  the  ex-barman,  "  except  maybe  in  your  ain 
lodgings.  And  the  law  doesna  bother  the  Coogate  muckle, 
either,  sir,  askin'  your  pardon." 

"  Well,  at  any  rate,"  continued  the  happy  missionary, 
"  we  will  have  notices  for  the  walls.  For  the  reading  room, 
'  Please  do  not  Speak  above  a  Whisper.'  In  the  games' 
room,  and  the  bowling  alley,  and  at  the  billiard  and  bagatelle 
tables,  there,  of  course,  the  men  can  smoke  as  much  as  they 
want  to.  But  in  the  general  talk  and  tea  room,  and  where 
the  work  girls  may  have  a  little  dance,  under  proper  super- 
vision, after  shop-closing  hours,  we  will  have  a  big  placard, 
'  Please  do  not  Smoke  Here/  or  something  like  that, 
eh,  Billy?" 

Billy  Earsman  had  been  getting  more  and  more  uneasy 
as  the  gentle,  equal  voice  proceeded,  and  the  long,  slender 
fingers  checked  off  the  programme  point  by  point. 

There  was  evidently  going  to  be  too  much  sugar  candy 
in  Mr.  Molesay's  arrangements  to  suit  the  taste  of  the 
Cowgate. 

"  If  ye  please,  sir — /'/  you  please,  sir — no  to  interrupt 
ye,"  Billy  broke  in  at  last,  though  Kate  was  signaling  him 
entreatingly  to  be  silent.  "  I  hae  seen  the  '  placard-on-the- 
wall '  trick  tried  afore.     It  does  weel  eneuch,  but  it's  like 

375 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

a  weakly  bairn  that  canna  gang  its  lane!  What  care  big 
Rob  Paterson  or  McGaffie,  the  coal  cairter — no  to  speak  o' 
the  '  St.  Jacob's  '  boys  for  tickets  on  the  wall?     No  that!  " 

And  Billy  cracked  his  finger  and  thumb  with  a  report 
like  a  horse-pistol. 

"And  what  would  you  have  me  do?  "  urged  the  gentle 
little  man.     "  I  cannot  use  force." 

"Do?"  cried  Billy  Eearsman.  "Just  leave  a'  that  to 
me,  sir.  Only  dinna  come  flutterin'  ben  when  ye  hear  a 
bit  noise,  that's  a' !  " 

"  But  what  would  you  do,  Billy,  if  any  of  the  regula- 
tions were  systematically  disregarded?" 

"Eh?"  said  Billy,  who  did  not  catch  Mr.  Molesay's 
meaning  among  so  many  long  words. 

"  If  they  did  not  behave  as  the  placards  told  them," 
explained  the  little  man,  "  what  steps  would  you  take — 
what  would  you  do?  " 

"Do?  Do!"  said  Billy  scratching  his  head.  "  Weel, 
juist  what  me  and  Ogg  wad  hae  dune.  I  wad  gang  up  to 
ony  blackyard  that  I  saw  smokin',  and  say  to  him,  says  I, 
ceevil  like,  'Can  ye  read?'  'Aye!'  he  will  say.  Then  I 
wad  point  my  finger  to  the  ticket  on  the  waa',  and  says  I, 
'  For  if  ye  canna  I'll  read  it  for  ye,  "  Smokin'  is  no 
Allooed  Here  "!  And  if  ye  dinna  pit  awa'  that  pipe  ye'll 
find  yoursel'  oot  on  the  pavement  afore  ye  can  draw  three 
puffs! '  That's  the  way  to  speak  to  lads  o'  the  Coogate — 
kind,  but  firm!     Aye,  just  that — kind,  but  firm  !" 

Mr.  Molesay  laughed  a  little. 

"  The  firmness  I  see  indeed,"  he  answered  smiling;  "  the 
kindness  is,  perhaps,  a  little  to  seek!  " 

"  Na,  na,"  said  Billy;  "  alloo  me  to  ken.  It's  far  the 
kindest  way  in  the  end.  Nae  poliss,  nae  smashed  windows, 
nae  magistrate  i'  the  mornin'.     The  thing  juist  ends  where 

376 


THE    NEW    "B.    I.    P." 

it  began — richt  there.  And  when  the  lad  that  got  the  speedy 
despatch  has  done  sweerin',  and  rubbin'  the  gutters  aff  him, 
and  has  pitten  on  some  stickin'  plaister  here  and  there,  he 
will  come  back  and  ask  for  his  tuppenny  supper  as  saft- 
spoken  as  ony  o'  thae  Newington  young  leddies  that  collect 
at  the  doors  for  the  blind  asylum!  Believe  me,  sir,  it's  the 
only  way  to  gar  your  hoose  be  respected  in  the  Coogate !  " 

Mr.  Molesay  started. 

"  Gracious,  man,"  he  cried,  "  you  don't  surely  expect 
me  to  take  a  hand  in  such  work  ?  " 

The  big  barman  spread  his  shoulders  and  chuckled. 
Then  he  looked  pleasantly  and  a  trifle  pitifully  at  the  mis- 
sionary. 

"  Maister  Molesay,"  he  said,  "  I  hae  heard  ye  say  that 
there  is  his  ain  special  wark  to  every  man  and  every  woman 
on  this  earth.  Yours  is  to  preach  the  gospel,  and  tell  us 
how  bad  we  are — but  maybes  no  that  bad  but  what,  if  we 
gie  ye  a  chance,  ye  can  mak'  a  better  o'  us.  That's  your 
business,  an'  ye  are  guid  for  nae  ither.  Thae  fingers  o' 
yours  are  for  playin'  '  Oh,  Where  Is  My  Wandering  Boy,' 
on  the  American  organ,  or  turnin'  the  leaves  o'  your  wee 
Bible  to  look  for  a  text  that  will  nail  some  puir  sowl  up 
against  his  wrangdoing  like  a  hoolet  on  the  barn  waa!  But 
it  tak's  the  like  o'  that"  (and  Billy  laid  a  fist  of  the  size 
and  weight  of  a  fore  hammer  on  the  table  so  forcefully  that 
the  gentle  little  man  jumped)  "to  keep  the  Coogate  in 
order!  " 

"  I  hope  you  will  be  as  forbearing  as  possible,"  he  said. 
"  Of  course,  I  am  aware  that  order  must  be  maintained. 
But  even  you,  strong  as  you  are,  could  not  do  everything  if 
mischief  were  really  started." 

"  Oh,"  said  Billy  cheerfully,  "  I  will  no  be  exactly  by 
my  lane!  There's  Muckle  Jock  Cockpen,  the  young  smith, 
25  377 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

that's  doin'  by  ordinar'  weel  the  noo — and  in  my  opeenion, 
he's  maybe  a  wee  bit  saft  on  Kate's  sister.  I  was  thinking 
that  we  wad  get  her  to  gie  Kate  a  hand  at  makkin'  the  tea 
an'  cutting  up  the  bread.  She  bides  oot  by  Torpheechan 
way,  and  is  a  decent  lass.  It  wad  save  Jock  a  fortune  in 
third-class  return  tickets,  if  he  could  come  here  to  see  her, 
and  I  think  him  an'  me  wad  be  aboot  eneuch  for  the  Coogate 
frae  end  to  end." 

"  I  do  cherish  a  hope,"  said  the  missionary,  "  that  we 
will  not  need  to  call  in  the  police.  Captain  Henderland 
has  been  more  than  kind  to  me  in  helping  with  all  the 
delicate  arrangements,  so  I  do  not  wish  to  trouble  him 
further." 

"Poliss!"  said  Billy,  beating  his  fist  repeatedly  on  the 
table,  "  me  and  Jock  Cockpen  will  be  a'  the  majesty  o'  law 
that  you  weel  need  in  the  B.  I.  P.  Forbye,  if  ye  will  no 
misunderstand  me,  ye  will  e'en  be  the  best  poliss  yoursel'." 

"Me!"  cried  the  little  silver-headed  man,  completely 
mystified. 

"  Aye,  juist  you,"  said  Billy.  "  Ye  see  the  palace  will 
be  yours.  And  wild  place  as  the  Coogate  may  be,  there 
are  but  few  that  wad  dare  to  stand  up  and  try  to  mak'  a 
mock  o'  you  or  ocht  that  belanged  to  ye!  He  wad  get  his 
heid  broke  faster  than  ye  could  crack  a  nut.  Ye  see,  Maister 
Molesay,  ye  are  bravely  weel  likit  i'  the  Coogate,  and  the 
man  that  hairmed  you  or  yours  had  better  be  flittin' — 
aye,  and  no  stop  to  pick  up  his  bonnet  either!  " 

Hearing  this  there  came  a  slight  moisture  into  the  clear 
eyes,  a  kind  of  gracious  film. 

Mr.  Molesay  nodded. 

"  Well,  after  all,  they  are  my  flock — my  family,"  he 
said.  "  All  I  am  ever  to  have  in  this  world.  But  that 
they  are  fond  o'  me,  that  they  think  well  of  me — I  will  not 

378 


THE    NEW    "B.    I.    P." 

deny  it — it  is  pleasant  to  hear,  yes,  as  the  waters  of  Shiloah 
that  flow  softly." 

So  three  hearts  were  made  happier  by  the  visit  of  the 
little  man  with  the  silver-gray  head  to  Kate  Earsman's. 
Kate  felt  now  that  she  could  live  again.  Billy  was  glad 
that  Kate  was  glad,  and  as  for  the  city  missionary,  he  felt 
that  he  had  not  lived  in  vain. 

Also  a  remarkable  advance  had  been  made  in  simplifying 
the  working  arrangements  of  the  new  and  transformed 
British  Imperial  Palace.  Billy  Earsman  was  in  charge  of  law 
and  order. 


379 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

"  I  WILL  ARISE !  " 

OW  while  within  the  Calton  the  last  sands 
of  the  Knifer's  appointed  span  were  already 
whirling  toward  the  last  grain,  and  no 
fresh  reprieve  seemed  likely  to  be  granted, 
many  strange  things  are  happening  outside. 
It  did  not  seem,  however,  that  any  of  them  bore  directly 
or  indirectly  on  the  fate  of  Knifer  Jackson. 

For  instance  there  was  Egham  Castle.  In  these  days 
Patricia  and  Baby  Lant  did  not  spend  very  much  time  there. 
For  one  thing  it  was  too  near  the  reformatory,  which  at 
first  Baby  Lant  had  vaunted  as  a  merit,  though  Patricia 
refused  to  see  the  matter  in  that  light  at  all. 

"  For  the  present,"  she  said  gravely,  "  Hearne  is  far 
better  at  work — I  also.  We  will  take  a  house,  you  and  I, 
for  the  autumn  and  winter  in  Edinburgh.  That  will  clear 
the  board.  It  will  give  you  time  to  make  Egham  habitable 
— and,  a  year  or  so  after  Hearne's  father's  death — well,  I 
shall  see." 

So  they  took  a  furnished  house  in  Glencairn  Crescent, 
well  out  beyond  the  cathedral,  and  helped  or  hindered  Mr. 
Molesay  according  to  their  moods — which  in  the  circum- 
stances were  naturally  various  and  uncertain.  They  bought 
books  for  the  library  of  the  B.  I.  P. — Baby  Lant  attending 

380 


"I    WILL    ARISE!" 

to  the  department  of  frivolous  literature,  and  Pat  coming 
out  unexpectedly  strong  on  science,  travel,  history,  and  in- 
struction generally — with  special  reference,  as  was  natural 
in  a  British  Imperial  Palace,  to  the  Dominion  of  Canada. 

So  one  morning  as  Baby  Lant  sat  looking  over  cata- 
logues of  books  removed  from  Foulis's  and  Mudies'  libraries 
— for  she  was  a  saving  little  woman — a  message  was 
brought  to  her  that  some  one  from  Egham  Castle  wished 
to  see  her.  "  The  butler,  I  think,  and  he  looks  frightened," 
ventured  the  maid. 

"  Show  him  up  at  once,"  said  Baby  Lant,  hastily  belting 
her  blue  gown  and  tossing  her  hair  on  top  of  her  head. 

And  William,  promoted  long  ago — trustworthy,  dull 
William — came  in,  dazed  and  gray-white,  his  lips  an  un- 
healthy "  blae,"  and  his  eyes  red  from  want  of  sleep. 

"  Why,  what  in  the  world  is  the  matter?  "  cried  Baby 
Lant  at  sight  of  him,  "  you  look  half-dead." 

"  And  so  I  am,  miss,"  said  William.  I  can't  stand  it — 
not  a  day  longer.  There's  something  wrong  at  Egham, 
something  sorely  wrong." 

"  In  what  way?  "  demanded  Baby  Lant.  "  What  should 
there  be  wrong?  Tell  me  all  about  it,  William.  More  bur- 
glars?" 

"  I  dunno,  miss,"  he  answered,  "  leastways  I  think  I 
may  say  it's  not  that.  There's  nothing  taken  that  I  can 
see.  Nor  can  I  hear  anything — nor  has  any  living  person 
been  seen.  But  the  truth  is  just  I  can't  stop,  much  as  I  would 
wish  to." 

And  the  man's  trembling  lips  and  shaking  hands  betrayed 
the  reality  of  his  terror. 

"  But  what  can  be  the  matter — nothing  seen,  nothing 
heard,  nothing  missing?  " 

"  Well,"  said  William,  as  it  were  driven  desperate,  "  to 
381 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

tell  the  truth — it's  master  that  walks — leastways  his  clothes 
do." 

"Nonsense!"  said  Baby  Lant.  "Clothes  walking! 
You've  got  nervous  by  yourself  in  that  big  house,  that's  all. 
Have  some  of  the  gardeners  and  foresters  in  to  sleep  with 
you. 

"  I  have  had,"  said  William  shaking  his  head.  "  I  took 
that  liberty — I  couldn't  have  lived  else.  But  as  I  am  a 
mortal  man  there's  something,  miss — something  that  isn't 
good  nor  wholesome  to  be  near  over  at  Egham  Castle! 
And  I  can't  stay  a  day  longer — no,  not  for  double  wages, 
miss! 

"  Do  you  mean  a  ghost?  "  said  Baby  Lant  incredulously. 

"  I  don't  give  the  thing  a  name,"  said  William  recover- 
ing himself  a  little.  "  No,  it's  beyond  me.  But  I'll  tell 
you  in  a  word  what  happens  every  night.  You  know 
master's  rooms  and  those  that  were  Mrs.  Boreham-Egham's 
are  all  to  be  changed,  and  the  mess  that  them  masons  and 
plasterers  make  is  just  past  believing " 

"  Well,  there's  nothing  spectral  about  that,"  said  Baby 
Lant,  beginning  to  think  that  she  had  to  do  with  a  lunatic. 

"  No,  miss,"  continued  William,  "  that's  not  it.  It's 
because  every  night  master's  things  are  laid  out  properly  on 
chairs  up  there,  just  like  they  used  to  be  when  he  was  alive. 
He  always  was  very  particular — master  was.  Wouldn't 
have  his  shirt  and  collar  but  only  in  one  place,  and  his 
wig  and  pads  and  back  straps  each  by  themselves.  And  if 
they  didn't  just  quite  please  him  he  would  sit  and  storm 
in  his  dressing  gown  till  they  was  put  right.  Well,  I  go 
up  and  make  sure  every  night — that  is,  me  and  some  of  the 
lads  with  lanterns  and  pitchforks.  There's  nothing  there 
but  heaps  of  lime  and  mortar  and  bricks — dirt  is  no  name 
for  it,  madam.     And  in  the  morning  we  go  up  again  and 

382 


"I    WILL    ARISE!" 

open  the  door,  and — there's  all  master's  things  set  out — all 
proper,  as  I  tell  you — everything  on  its  own  chair,  and  the 
scarlet  dressing  gown  where  he  could  reach  it  first  thing 
out  of  his  bed !  " 

William's  voice  hastened  as  he  came  near  the  finish, 
broke,  and  tumbled  to  the  end  in  the  hurried  screech  of  a 
chased   hen. 

Baby  Lant  could  make  nothing  of  it.  She  had  never 
essayed  to  plumb  such  waters  before. 

"  I  must  speak  to  Hearne,"  she  said.  "  Meanwhile  go 
and  telegraph — no,  stop,  I  will  do  it  myself — to  the  head 
keeper  at  Egham  to  have  half  a  dozen  men  in  the  castle 
night  and  day  till  we  make  arrangements." 

William  stood  before  her  not  offering  to  retire.  Nor 
indeed  had  she  dismissed  him.  He  was  an  excellent  servant 
but  he  lacked  initiative. 

"  Oh !  by  the  bye,  William,"  said  Baby  Lant  presently, 
"  you  had  better  stay  here  to-night.  You  are  in  no  state  to 
go  back  to  Egham." 

"  Thank  you,  madam — no,  ma'am,"  said  William.  "  I 
don't  deny  but  that  I  have  had  a  shake.  Anybody  would 
have  had  a  shake." 

The  night  upon  which  William,  the  butler — afraid  to 
remain  in  Egham  Castle  because  of  a  few  chairs,  symmetri- 
cally placed,  with  clothes  neatly  folded  upon  them — remained 
in  Glencairn  Crescent  was  remarkable  also  for  two  other 
things. 

It  was  the  last  night  Knifer  Jackson  was  to  spend  on 
the  earth.  He  knew  it,  too,  because  he  had  noticed  that  an 
extra  good  dinner  had  been  served  to  him,  and  that  Colonel 
Crosstrees,  the  governor,  had  looked  in  with  a  kind  word, 
and  a  request  to  know  how  he  was  enjoying  it.     Also  his 

383 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

warders  had  usually  been  changed  at  six  o'clock  in  the  even- 
ing.    That  night  there  had  been  no  change  until  ten. 

The  Knifer,  a  clever  man  in  his  way,  drew  his  conclu- 
sions. This  time,  for  a  certainty,  it  was  to  be.  The  Knifer 
had  some  thoughts  of  sending  for  Mr.  Molesay.  But  some 
one  of  the  warders,  having  told  him  that  the  British  Im- 
perial Palace  was  to  be  opened  under  new  management  that 
night,  the  Knifer  said  grimly,  "  Well,  it  won't  make  much 
difference,  anyway,  and  God  forbid  that  I  should  cross  the 
luck  of  the  little  man!  " 

The  other  remarkable  thing,  the  opening  of  the  British 
Imperial  Palace  in  the  most  eligible  site  in  the  Cowgate  as 
"  Molesay's  Mission,"  was  an  event  practically  domestic  to 
the  inhabitants  of  that  curious  underworld.  Up  on  the 
North  Bridge,  even  in  the  Grass  Market,  the  surface  of 
things  remained  wholly  undisturbed.  But  in  the  Cowgate 
and  the  South  Back  nothing  else  was  talked  about.  Every- 
body was  going  to  the  B.  I.  P. — the  good,  the  bad,  and 
especially  the  indifferent.  It  was  there  that  Baby  Lant  and 
Patricia,  her  sister,  expected  to  find  Hearne. 

That  young  man,  interested  in  all  the  doings  of  Mr. 
Molesay  knew  his  public.  Hardly  even  the  late  lamented 
might  have  a  chance  of  speaking  to  Patricia — had  cycled 
in  from  the  "  Peat  "  Reformatory,  where  he  had  been  doing 
the  work  of  half  a  dozen  men,  as  Carvel  gratefully  ad- 
mitted. 

It  must  be  recorded  in  this  place  that  Mr.  Archbold 
Molesay  knew  his  public.  Hardly  even  the  late  lamented 
Ogg,  now  safely  through  Castle  Garden  with  his  thousand 
gold  sovereigns,  had  catered  for  it  better  during  his  long 
tenancy  of  the  B.  I.  P.  There  was  no  great  "  swell  "  from 
a  distance  on  Mr.  Molesay's  opening  night,  who  would 
occupy  the  center  of  the  platform,  and  speak  for  an  hour 

384 


"I    WILL    ARISE!" 

and  a  quarter  till  the  audience  should  begin  to  get  thirsty  in 
a  mass.  There  were  only  Cowgate  folk — the  Rev.  Harry 
Rodgers,  Dr.  Salmond,  always  wise  and  kind,  Dr.  Love 
from  the  dispensary,  and  Hugh  Barber,  shy  and  gracious — a 
dweller  in  the  upper  world  indeed,  but  known  in  the  Cow- 
gate  for  many  a  year  as  a  son  of  consolation. 

Chiefly  and  most  applauded  there  was  Mr.  Molesay 
himself,  gliding  from  one  group  to  another,  inviting  all  and 
sundry  to  the  great  bar  at  which  Billy  Earsman,  in  the 
whitest  of  shirt  sleeves,  and  with  a  broad  grin  on  his  face, 
served  such  tea  and  coffee  and  soup  as  had  never  before 
been  tasted  in  the  Cowgate.  There  were  dishes  of  pie  and 
brawn,  joints  of  cold  beef  and  cold  mutton,  bread  in  half- 
pound  "  hunks  " — all  for  nothing,  because  it  was  "  Mr. 
Molesay's  opening  night."  Only,  at  either  end,  in  a  place 
that  it  was  impossible  to  overlook,  hung  two  good-will  bags, 
to  the  weighty  contents  of  which  any  could  contribute,  if  it 
were  no  more  than  a  half-penny,  as  an  easy  and  practical 
way  of  saying  good  luck  to  the  B.  I.  P. 

The  future  tariff  of  the  establishment  had  been  made 
into  a  series  of  slides,  the  favorite  of  which  was  a  picture  of 
a  rabbit  in  a  potato  plot,  holding  up  a  card  between  his 
paws,  on  which  was  inscribed,  "  You  can  have  me  baked  in 
a  pie  with  these  for  only  3d."  The  fact  that  the  artist  had 
portrayed  the  potatoes,  which  appeared  here  and  there  in  the 
furrows,  of  the  size  of  melons,  did  not  matter.  For  he  had 
thoughtfully  added  the  legend  at  the  foot,  "  Mr.  Mole- 
say's  twopenny  rabbit  in  Mr.  Molesay's  penny  potato  field." 
All  of  which,  taken  literally,  showed  that  Mr.  Molesay 
either  stole  his  rabbits  or  got  his  potatoes  considerably  under 
cost  price. 

The  meeting  proper  began  at  eight  o'clock,  the  hour 
when,  up  in  the  condemned  cell,  the  Knifer  was  holding  de- 

385 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

bate  with  himself  whether  he  would   or  would   not  send 
for  Mr.  Archbold  Molesay. 

Now,  as  we  know,  Mr.  Molesay  was  broad-minded. 
He  knew  very  well  that  he  could  not  address  the  waifs  and 
strays,  men  and  women  mostly  settled  on  the  lees  of  their 
misery,  and  sodden  with  poverty  to  the  point  of  callousness, 
except  in  the  clearest  and  crispest  way.  "  Sin  had  brought 
condemnation;  from  which  only  God,  the  for  giver  of  sin, 
could  deliver.     For  Christ's  sake.     Amen." 

This,  in  his  mission  room,  was  Mr.  Archbold  Molesay's 
complete  gospel.  He  could  dispute  with  his  friend  Harry 
Rodgers,  till  the  hours  grew  small  and  Mrs.  Rodgers  came 
to  the  head  of  the  stairs  to  ask  him  if  he  meant  to  take 
breakfast  with  them,  about  the  fundamental  difficulties  of 
every  thoughtful  man,  and  the  impossibility  of  holding  any 
hard  and  fast  dogmatic. 

"  You  cannot  hitch  on  the  God  within  us  to  the  God 
who  made  Heaven  and  Earth  by  means  of  a  printed  book," 
he  was  wont  to  say  at  such  times.  This  was  his  closet 
doctrine,  which  he  kept  to  himself  or  for  one  or  two  intimates. 

But  on  the  platform  Mr.  Molesay  spoke  as  one  having 
authority.  Addresses  delivered  there  were  brief  and  to  the 
point.  The  Rev.  Harry  Rodgers  shook  that  hardened  com- 
pany of  backsliders  with  the  terrors  of  a  broken  law  and 
of  an  Angry  Judge.  Little  Mr.  Molesay  shifted  uneasily 
as  his  friend  was  speaking,  but  he  added  nothing  at  the 
time,  knowing  what  was  coming  later. 

Then  Dr.  Love  spoke  healingly  of  the  doctors  and  nurses, 
who  in  such  a  place  as  this  Cowgate  of  theirs,  went  about 
doing  good,  cheerfully,  kindly,  asking  neither  for  fee  nor 
reward. 

"  Can  God,  who  is  love,  be  less  kind  than  these  men 
and  women  whom  He  has  made?     I  cannot  believe  it." 

386 


"I    WILL    ARISE!" 

Upon  which  Mr.  Molesay  breathed  again  and  whispered 
to  his  friend  by  his  side,  "  Rodgers,  you  are  one  of  them. 
More  than  half  your  dinner  goes  from  your  back  door  every 
day.  And  as  for  topcoats,  your  wife  was  telling  me  the 
other  day " 

"  Shut  up !  "  said  the  Reverend  Harry,  with  the  scandal- 
ized abruptness  of  a  college  friend. 

The  great  hall,  which  had  been  the  dancing  saloon  of 
the  B.  I.  P.,  was  crowded  to  the  door.  The  little  bar  in 
the  corner,  at  which  on  big  nights,  Billy  had  stood  in  state, 
contained  Billy  still.  But  a  Billy  no  longer  in  shirt  sleeves. 
At  the  meeting  he  had  demanded  that  Jock  Cockpen  and  he 
should  be  allowed  to  put  on  their  Sunday  coats  decently. 
Otherwise  he  threatened  a  strike.  So,  dearly  as  the  quaint 
convolution  of  little  Mr.  Molesay's  brain,  which  loved  the 
bizarre,  would  have  liked  to  see  Billy  as  of  yore  in  shirt 
sleeves  in  the  corner,  he  knew  that  it  was  for  the  good 
of  the  B.  I.  P.  under  its  new  management  that  he  should 
take  Billy's  advice.  So,  from  the  platform,  and  round  the 
corner  of  the  big  twenty-foot  wetted  screen  on  which  the 
lantern  pictures  would  presently  flash  out,  Mr.  Molesay 
could  see  his  Gog  and  Magog  on  either  side  of  the  porch, 
arms  folded,  countenance  imperturbable,  the  whole  responsi- 
bility of  the  gathering  obviously  resting  upon  them. 

Indeed,  it  was  nothing  less  than  the  salvation  of  Billy 
the  bully  and  Jock  Cockpen.  They  had  found  something  to 
do — something  definite,  concrete,  requiring  enthusiasm,  pa- 
tience, concentration.  They  were  doorkeepers  in  the  house 
of  their  God.  And  Satan,  whose  business,  according  to  good 
authority,  is  the  providing  of  occupation  for  idle  hands,  had 
no  more  power  over  them. 

Then  came  Mr.  Molesay,  and  at  the  sight  of  him  a  wave 
of  enthusiastic  emotion  filled  that  great  assembly  of  those 

387 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

who  inhabit  the  streets  and  lanes  of  the  deepest  city.  He 
stood  trying  to  say  that  he  was  glad  to  see  them,  but  he 
had  to  say  it  with  his  hand,  as  cheer  after  cheer  swept 
thunderous  up  to  the  roof  of  varnished  pine,  and  made 
even  the  gas  fittings  dirl  and  sing.  Gust  followed  gust, 
as  the  little  man  stood  before  those  who  were  peculiarly  his 
flock — that  is,  those  who  were  nobody  else's  flock.  Cheer 
pushed  on  cheer,  in  one  continuous  roar,  till  Mr.  Rodgers  and 
Dr.  Love  smiled  across  at  each  other,  watching  the  depreca- 
ting, feeble  lifting  of  that  little  white  hand. 

Mr.  Archbold  Molesay's  lips  moved,  though  nobody 
heard  what  he  said.  He  was  explaining  to  himself  that  this 
great  welcome  was  not  his,  but  was  meant  for  his  Master. 
And  if  he  had  made  any  soul  think  better  of  Him — why, 
what  had  he  to  say  against  that?    God  forbid! 

"  My  friends,"  he  began,  his  voice,  silvern  like  his  hair, 
easily  reaching  every  part  of  the  room  and  making  the  twin 
pillars  of  Hercules — Billy  and  Jock  Cockpen — firm  them- 
selves on  their  legs  and  fold  their  arms  tighter,  "  my  stead- 
fast friends,  this  is  a  night  of  joy  to  me — to  see  you  here — 
here  in  this  place  which  is  ours — ours  by  the  gift  of  a  certain 
gracious  young  lady " 

At  this  moment  Pat  and  Baby  Lant  appeared,  and 
without  ostentation  moved  from  the  side  door  by  which  they 
had  entered — one  of  many — to  seats  which  were  made  for 
them  in  a  moment  just  beneath  the  platform. 

"  That's  her!  "  whispered  the  assembled  Cowgate.  "  Her 
that  gied  the  siller  to  buy  Ogg's  Paillace  wi'!  " 

"Whatyin?    Whatyin?" 

But  there  was  a  division  concerning  this  matter.  Pat, 
however,  was  distinctly  the  favorite.  She  had  lived  among 
them — at  the  manse — Rodgers's.  See,  the  minister's  wife 
was  speaking  to  her.     At  any  rate,  three  cheers  for  Pat — 

388 


"I    WILL    ARISE!" 

three  cheers,  and  three  cheers  for  her  sister,  who  was  "  sic 
a  bonnie  young  leddy !  "  For  the  Cowgate  is  as  susceptible 
to  beauty  as  any  other  part  of  the  civilized  world. 

By  this  time  the  slender-fingered  white  hand  had  pre- 
vailed. Silence  was  made,  so  sudden  that  there  seemed  to 
be  a  void  somewhere  in  space.  Ears  still  rang  with  the 
shouting.  But  in  the  great  hall  of  the  late  Ogg  the  stillness 
could  be  felt. 

"  I  have  prepared  no  address  of  welcome,"  he  said.  "  You 
know  that  I  am  glad  to  see  you  here.  It  is  your  house  and 
God's  house — where  you  and  He  shall  meet  together.  After 
a  short  prayer  I  shall  have  some  very  fine  new  pictures 
illustrating  the  parable  of  the  Prodigal  Son  which  I  am 
going  to  show  to  you.    There  will  also  be  singing." 

Mr.  Molesay  prayed.  There  was  always  a  quaver  in 
his  voice  when  he  did  that,  something  that  approached  the 
tremolo  of  a  violoncello  string  that  slips  a  little  in  the 
night  and  the  darkness — nothing  of  the  Boanerges  or  silver 
trumpet  about  the  little  city  missionary.  He  drew  men's 
hearts  because  he  himself  was  near  to  the  heart  of  God. 
That  was  all. 

The  prayer  pleaded  for  sinners,  that  is  for  himself  and 
all  there  present — for  the  great  sinners,  of  whom  he  was 
the  chief — or  at  least  the  one  he  knew  best,  for  the  poor 
man  "up  yonder!"  Here  a  lift  of  the  hand  before  the 
closed  eyes  indicated  where  Knifer  Jackson  awaited  the 
morrow. 

At  that  there  came  a  sob  from  among  the  audience  some- 
where. From  a  dark  corner,  out  of  the  burdened  breast 
of  some  one  unseen,  broke  the  answering  moan,  which  was 
a  prayer. 

Now,  to  conduct  lantern  services  is  not  so  simple  as  it 
looks.     "  A  few  remarks  about  the  pictures  "  will  not  do. 

389 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

No  more  will  a  sermon  with  pauses  for  the  flashing  on  of 
disconnected  scenes  which  only  distract  the  attention  of  the 
audience.  Hand-colored  pictures  only  and  these  of  the 
finest.  That  is  "  the  tip."  Above  all,  there  must  be  a  man, 
a  first-class  professional,  or  an  amateur  fully  equal  to  a  pro- 
fessional, at  the  lantern.  There  must  be  no  mistakes.  At 
a  pathetic  moment  it  is  absolutely  fatal  if  the  Prodigal  Son 
comes  in  serenely  sixteen  feet  high  and — upside  down! 

But  Mr.  Molesay  had  no  fears.  All  would  go  well. 
For  was  not  Charlie  Haddon,  the  best  man  in  Edinburgh, 
behind  the  lens.  It  was  yet  in  the  early  days  of  lanterns, 
and  audiences  were  not  surfeited  with  them.  At  least  Cow- 
gate  audiences  were  not — and  certainly  not  with  slides  like 
those  of  Mr.  Brown,  evangelist  enthusiast  of  lantern  pho- 
tography. Such  slides  as  his  could  not  be  bought,  and  as 
Haddon  flashed  each  upon  the  screen  Mr.  Brown  stood  at 
his  elbow,  and  his  heart  beat  fast,  half  with  good  will  for  the 
cause  and  half  with  a  kind  of  motherly  fear  that  he  might 
see  the  fatal  spreading  crack  which  tells  that  the  heat  has 
been  too  great  in  the  condenser. 

The  little  missionary  held  up  both  hands.  The  gas  was 
lowered. 

There  was  a  hush,  deeper  than  all  that  had  gone  before, 
as  the  Prodigal  Son  was  seen  leaving  his  father's  house,  the 
desert  spreading  wide  and  tawny  all  about  him,  his  foot- 
steps making  blue  stains  on  the  white  glare  of  the  sand,  and 
on  his  back,  reduced  to  its  ultimate  bulk  in  gold  or  jewels, 
the  "  portion  of  goods  that  pertained  to  him." 

Then  unseen,  and  very  softly,  the  choir  sang: 

"  I  was  a  wandering  sheep — I  did  not  love  the  fold!  " 

Mr.  Molesay  said  little  in  guise  of  comment.  But  he 
had  a  way  of  saying  that  little  impressively.  In  substance, 
this: 

390 


"I    WILL    ARISE!" 

The  trackless  desert  was  still  as  of  old  before  everyone. 
At  the  setting  out  there  were  no  beaten  roads  to  follow. 
The  blown  sand  had  drifted  over  them.  Each  must  make 
his  own  road.  Above  were  the  stars,  and  God — so  they  said, 
at  least — as  for  him,  he,  Archbold  Molesay,  knew  that 
within  was  the  inner  light,  at  once  compass  and  chart — the 
kingdom  of  God  is  within  you ! 

Then  flashed  on  the  great  wet  screen  set  in  bamboo,  the 
Cowgate  folk  saw  glimpses  of  the  far  land  and  the  poor  young 
fellow  wasting  his  substance.  That  affected  them  less. 
People  with  money  to  spend  in  riotous  living  did  not  visit 
the  Cowgate  to  do  it — that  is,  unless  they  were  of  native 
extraction.  And  with  the  common  broad  way  of  destruction, 
open  to  all  and  hard  trodden  day  by  day,  night  after  night, 
they  were  familiar  enough. 

The  men  all  said,  "  What  a  young  fool!  " 

And  the  women,  "  Eh,  what  a  peety — for  he  is  the 
bonnie  laddie,  too!  " 

The  swine  trough  touched  them  more  closely.  There 
was  the  prodigal,  seated  at  a  dike-back  (as  it  seemed),  the 
herds  of  the  unclean  beasts  about  him,  feeding  out  of  full 
troughs,  shouldering  and  trampling.  Famine  had  bitten  sore 
on  the  land.  Pride  had  had  a  fall.  But  no  man  gave  unto 
him. 

"Aye,  he's  gye  and  vexed  for't  noo,  I'm  thinkin'!  "  said 
the  men,  with  a  nudge,  as  if  they  had  told  him  how  it  would 
be,  before  he  went  among  such  company  as  he  had  been  keep- 
ing of  late. 

"Oh,  it's  a  peety — it's  a  peety!"  sobbed  the  women. 
"  The  puir  young  laddie — sae  bonnie — and  hungry !  Oh, 
wae'  me!  " 

It  was  a  good  lantern  fitted  with  double-dissolving  gear. 
Back  in  the  glancing  darkness  where  the  oxygen  hissed  low 

391 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

on  the  limes,  Haddon  changed  a  slide,  under  the  anxious 
eyes  of  Mr.  William  Brown,  its  owner,  who  trembled  for 
its  safety  while  assured  of  its  success. 

On  the  screen  the  prodigal  scarce  seemed  to  change  his 
position,  but  he  was  looking  up  now.  There  was  a  strange, 
rapt  look  on  his  face. 

Then  from  the  darkness  behind  the  screen  a  single 
voice  was  lifted  up,  a  woman's  thrilling  contralto,  with 
notes  in  it  that  throbbed  like  a  great  organ  touched  peace- 
fully by  a  master. 

'*  I  .   .    .   will  arise  .    .    .   and  go  ...   to  my  father, 

And  will  say  unto  him  .    .    .    «  I  have  sinned  .    .    .   sinned  .    .    . 
And  am  ...   no  more  worthy  ...   to  be  called  .    .   .   thy 
son!"' 

Perhaps  it  was  a  trick.  At  any  rate  it  would  not  bear 
doing  twice.  For  as  the  marvelous  tones  beat  upward 
through  the  hush,  the  withdrawing  hush  of  the  dark  hall, 
something  clicked  in  the  lantern.  The  keen  white  light 
changed  its  pitch  momentarily,  and  lo!  dimly  they  could 
see  the  prodigal  on  his  feet.  He  had  arisen  and  was  going — 
going — back  to  his  father! 

« •  I   have   sinned  ...   I   have    sinned  .   .    .   and    am    no    more 
worthy  ..." 

throbbed  the  voice.  And  then  there  was  silence  and  here  and 
there  the  muffled  sound  of  sobbing. 

These  were  drowned  in  a  kind  of  murmuring  sound, 
half-hum,  half-whisper,  all  abroad  over  the  great  audience, 
as  if  it  were  going  from  bench  to  bench.  And  then  came  the 
voice  of  Mr.  Molesay: 

"  It  is  never  too  late  to  go  to  the  Father.  If  any  have 
392 


"I    WILL    ARISE!" 

sin — arise — go!  He  is  waiting!  He  will  forgive!  Doubt 
knot!" 

And  like  an  echo  a  woman's  voice  answered  him: 

"  I  will — I  will !  "  she  cried.  "  I  will  hide  my  sin  no 
longer.  The  innocent  shall  not  die  for  the  guilty.  Mr. 
Molesay,  sir,  go  and  stop  them,  I  pray  you.  Do  not  let 
them  hang  an  innocent  man  to-morrow  morning,  and  so 
lose  my  poor  soul — and  his — and  his!" 

The  lights  had  not  been  turned  up,  and  there  was  a 
sound  of  blind,  stumbling  footsteps.  A  little  woman  was 
staggeringly  making  her  way  to  the  front. 

Billy  and  Jock  turned  up  the  lights,  and  Billy  started 
forward.  But  it  was  no  disturbance — no  row.  Only  a 
little,  trembling,  frightened  woman,  the  mere  withered  kale 
stock  of  a  woman,  was  clinging  to  Mr.  Molesay's  arm.  He 
was  saying  something  low  in  her  ear. 

"  No!  "  she  cried.  "  I  will  not  go  to  another  room.  I 
have  gone  far  astray.  I  am  punished.  But  I  take  your  word 
for  it — I  will  hold  you  to  it  before  the  bar — before  the 
bar — that  there  is  forgiveness  for  him  and  me.  I  will  tell 
in  public,  before  all  these,  what  I  have  done — what  he  has 
done.  And  then  they  will  not  hang  the  man  Knifer  Jackson, 
who  came  to  steal,  indeed,  but  who  is  no  murderer !  " 

Then  it  came  with  a  rush. 

"  Lord  Athabasca  was  found  dead  in  his  chair !  "  she 
cried,  "  with  the  Knifer's  blade  in  his  throat.  But  it  was 
my  poor  husband  who,  in  a  fit  of  madness,  drove  the  knife 
to  the  haft !  " 

It  was  Marigh  Hammer  who  spoke! 


26  393 


CHAPTER  XXIX 


THE  CONDEMNED  CELL 


N  this  wise  the  B.  I.  P.  began  its  work. 
What  matter  if  the  meeting  broke  up  in 
some  confusion.  Already  it  had  saved  a 
life — perhaps  a  soul.  At  any  rate  the  Cow- 
gate  did  not  wait  for  explanations  or  details. 
In  a  few  minutes  some  of  the  more  active  of  the  audience, 
and  those  nearest  the  door,  were  battering  on  the  great 
gates  of  the  Calton  prison.  From  within  they  could  hear 
the  hollow  strokes  of  the  mallet  and  the  sharper  tapping  of 
the  hammers  as  the  scaffold  went  up  to  be  ready  for  eight 
o'clock  of  the  morning. 

"  We  will  save  the  Knifer!  We  will  save  the  Knifer!  " 
shouted  the  crowd  in  a  Babel  of  cries;  some  hoarse,  some 
shrill. 

But  the  governor  could  do  nothing,  though  the  crowd 
increased,  even  alarmingly.  Not  a  few  thought  that  it  was 
only  another  false  confession  to  save  the  man's  precious 
neck — like  that  which  already  had  won  him  six  weeks  of 
wretched  life. 

At  the  British  Imperial  Palace  no  one  waited  for  the 
benediction,  as  Billy  and  Jock  Cockpen  shooed  the  audience 
out,  like  so  much  intrusive  poultry.     They  had  gotten  their 

394 


THE    CONDEMNED    CELL 

lesson.  The  mission  was  vindicated.  Now  let  them  go 
home.    Wiser  heads  than  theirs  had  the  matter  in  hand. 

Already  Mr.  Molesay,  Dr.  Love,  and  Mr.  Rodgers 
were  on  their  way  to  the  chief  of  police,  with  poor,  trembling 
Marigh  Hammer,  in  a  hastily  summoned  cab.  Captain 
Henderland  would  tell  them  what  to  do. 

"  I  will  fetch  the  lord  advocate,"  he  said,  with  his  quick 
emphatic  grasp  of  detail.  "  It's  a  God's  blessing  I  know 
where  he  is  dining  to-night!  He  shall  come  if  I  have  to 
arrest  him!  Thomson  "  (he  spoke  to  an  inspector  hastily), 
"  go  down  to  the  telegraph  office,  and  call  up  the  Home 
Office.  Find  out  where  the  secretary  is.  We  may  need 
a  word  from  him  later  in  the  night." 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  poor  quaking  Marigh,  her  mouth 
overflowing  with  the  pitiful  words  in  which  she  strove  to 
vent  the  secret  that  had  nearly  killed  her,  told  her  tale  in 
quick  gasps.  Hearne  Mackenzie  had  come  in,  after  a  hasty 
word  with  Patricia  and  Atalanta.  In  a  night  so  full  of 
wondrous  things  William's  strange  communication  had  not 
been  forgotten. 

Curiously  enough,  after  Hearne  came  in,  Marigh  Ham- 
mer would  address  no  one  else,  not  though  a  quiet,  gray, 
keen-featured  man,  in  evening  dress,  had  entered  and  seated 
himself  at  the  table  like  any  casual  stranger.  It  was  the 
lord  advocate  himself. 

"  Sir,"  said  Marigh,  looking  at  Hearne,  "  God  knows 
we  sinned,  Algernon  and  I,  but  we  were  punished  and  that 
grievous.  But  it  was  your  father  that  offered  us  the 
£10,000  if  we  could  bring  about  his  marriage  with 
Miss  Patricia.  Yes,  it  was ;  we  had  not  thought  of  so  much 
money.  And  she  would  have  done  it,  too,  but  for  you. 
You  came  and  stole  her  from  us.  My  husband  went  to  the 
bank  to  be  paid  the  money  that  was  his.     On  the  way  he 

395 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

was  caught  and  kept  in  a  coalpit  or  tunnel — he  was  never 
able  to  tell  me  rightly  how  or  where." 

"  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  that!  "  said  Hearne,  sternly 
for  him. 

The  chief  waved  his  hand  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Let  her 
talk — do  not  stop  the  current — we  are  doing  finely!  " 

Marigh  continued  in  the  same  dry  throat  voice: 

"  Then,  when  he  went  to  the  bank,  they  told  him  that 
the  check  had  been  stopped  hours  before,  and  my  poor  Al- 
gernon fell  stunned  to  the  floor.  They  took  him  to  the 
hospital,  but  he  never  was  himself  again.  His  mind  was 
gone.  He  could  say  nothing  but — '  Ten  thousand  pounds 
— Ten  thousand  pounds!  It  is  mine!  My  old  master 
would  not  have  treated  me  so.' 

"  Then  he  went  out  to  drown  himself,  but  being  taken 
by  a  different  thought,  he  turned  back  to  get  his  rightful 
money  from  Lord  Athabasca  in  his  house  of  Three  Ridings." 

"  But  his  body  was  found  out  in  the  Frith?  "  suggested 
the  chief  in  a  low  tone. 

"  It  was  not  his — some  sailor  man,"  said  Marigh — "  not 
the  least  like  my  poor  Algernon.  He  was  that  handsome, 
and  had  the  most  beautiful  whiskers,  though  they  cut  them 
off,  they  did  in  the  tunnel.  He  went  to  Three  Ridings 
to  see  my  lord  and  to  get  his  money.  It  was  the  night  of 
the  fire.  And  there  were  burglars  there.  He  scared  them, 
I  think,  walking  proudly  up  the  stairs  as  if  they  were  his 
own.  They  ran,  believing  that  he  had  an  army  of  police  be- 
hind him.  Then  one  of  them  must  needs  drop  a  knife,  and 
Algernon,  meaning  no  evil,  took  it  in  his  hand. 

"  Yes,  he  went  in  to  my  Lord  Athabasca  with  the  check 
in  one  hand  and  the  knife  in  the  other.  So  much  he  told 
me. 

1  Pay  me  what  is  mine ! '  he  said — or  so,  at  least,  he 
396 


THE    CONDEMNED    CELL 

kept  saying  afterwards.  And  my  lord  laughed — only  laughed. 
He  did  foolishly  to  laugh  at  a  desperate  man  with  a  knife 
in  his  hand.  Algernon  struck  him  where  he  sat.  And 
that  was  how  you,  Mr.  Hearne,  found  what  you  did  on  the 
night  of  the  fire!  " 

Marigh  fumbled  a  moment  and  produced  a  folded  oblong 
of  paper  stained  with  rusty  finger  marks. 

"  There  is  the  check,  sir,"  she  said,  handing  it  across  to 
Hearne.  "  It  was  for  that  bit  o'  paper  that  your  father 
lost  his  life — and  my  husband  his  reason !  " 

"And  where  is  he  now,  your  husband?"  said  the  chief 
quickly. 

Instantly  Marigh  gave  a  quick,  semicircular  glance  at 
all  the  company  in  order.  For  the  first  time  the  importance 
of  the  little,  quiet  gray  man  in  the  evening  coat  seemed  to 
strike  her. 

"  If  I  tell  you,"  she  said,  advancing  a  little,  "  you  will 
give  me  your  word — you  will  not  hang  him.  He  is  mad ! 
My  poor  man !  " 

"  If  he  is  mad,"  said  the  stranger  in  the  evening  clothes, 
"  I  give  you  my  word.    He  shall  not  be  punished." 

"Who  are  you?"  demanded  Marigh  sharply. 

The  chief  answered  for  his  chief. 

"  This  is  the  lord  advocate  for  Scotland,"  he  said 
quietly. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Marigh,  "  it  will  be  better  for  my 
poor  Algernon  to  be  taken  care  of  at  once.  You  see  he 
might  do  more  mischief  without  in  the  least  meaning  it.  He 
was  stricken  mad  when  they  threw  the  paper  back  at  him  in 
the  bank.  He  stayed  with  me  for  weeks  and  weeks,  all 
quiet,  in  a  little  house  down  near  Queen  Mary's  Bath  at 
Holyrood.  And  oh,  I  used  to  take  him  for  walks  in  the 
park,  and  up  the  side  of  Arthur's  Seat  in  the   gloaming! 

397 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

No  one  would  have  known  him.  But  I  could  not  keep 
him — not  when  he  heard  that  his  old  master  was  dead. 

"  '  That  is  a  lie,'  Algernon  said  to  me.  '  He  only  has 
that  reported  so  that  I  may  go  back  and  look  out  his 
things  for  him.  No  one  could  do  for  Mr.  Philip  Egbert 
like  Hammer.     He  just  wants  me  back  and  I  am  going! ' 

"  So  he  went  without  more  ado,  leaving  me  there  stand- 
ing on  the  street,  just  where  the  thought  had  come  to  him. 
And,  gentlemen,  he  is  there  now — at  Egham  Castle!  And 
the  burden  has  grown  more  than  I  can  bear — the  fear  that 
he  might  strike  another  in  his  madness  as  he  did  my  Lord 
Athabasca!  " 

They  removed  her,  to  be  cared  for  tenderly.  The 
advocate  sent  his  message  to  the  home  secretary.  The 
secretary  replied.  And  about  the  Calton  the  noise  of  ham- 
mer and  mallet  ceased  as  if  by  magic. 

And  while  the  chief  and  Hearne,  with  half  a  dozen 
stalwart  men  of  the  force,  mounted  and  rode  through  the 
night  toward  Egham,  it  was  decided  that  no  one  in  the 
world  but  Mr.  Archbold  Molesay  had  the  right  to  go  in 
and  break  the  news  to  Knifer  Jackson.  The  governor,  kindly 
man,  insisted  upon  this  when  he  heard  the  account  of  the 
confession  at  the  opening  of  the  B.  I.  P. 

So  Mr.  Molesay  went. 

The  warder  from  without  noiselessly  undid  the.  door. 

Within  the  cell  of  the  doomed  Knifer  there  was  silence. 
The  two  watchers  inside  were  on  the  alert — one  read 
while  the  other  gazed  trancedly  into  the  flicker  of  the  naked 
gas  jet  on  the  whitewashed  wall.  Knifer  Jackson  had  lain 
down  on  his  bed  and  pulled  his  prison  rug  high  about  him, 
bringing  the  corner  over  so  that  it  covered  his  face.  He 
comprehended  that  it  was  the  end. 

The  dreadful  hammering  outside  was  present  to  all  his 
398 


THE    CONDEMNED    CELL 

senses.  That  was  the  worst  of  it.  If,  suddenly  and  without 
warning  he  had  been  summoned  to  walk  out  upon  the  drop, 
Knifer  could  have  done  it  unflinchingly.  It  was  the  waiting 
that  told,  and  the  dull  thudding  of  the  gibbet  builders 
without.  Sometimes  Knifer  thought  that  the  sound  was  in 
his  own  head — sometimes  that  he  was  in  the  shipbuilding 
yard  where  as  a  boy  he  had  been  allowed  to  sleep  by  a  kindly 
watchman.  It  was  good  there — he  smelled  the  shavings 
yet.  He  smelled  them  now  from  the  yard  without.  Strange! 
He  wondered  why  they  should  need  shavings  for  such  a 
big  thing  as  a  gallows  to  hang  a  man  upon.  Something 
wrong  with  the  trap,  perhaps.  They  would  be  planing  that 
down. 

Then  he  remembered  Daddy  Lennox  telling  him  that  it 
was  the  original  master  and  model  of  "  Blind  Jacob's,"  a 
certain  Deacon  Brodie,  who  had  first  perfected  the  drop. 
They  had  made  them  step  off  a  ladder  before  that.  The 
Knifer  was  sure  that  he  could  have  devised  something  better 
than  a  drop  if  only  they  had  given  him  a  little  time  and 
the  proper  tools.  He  was  not  very  angry,  nor  very  remorse- 
ful, nor  very  curious — nor  very  anything.  He  had  played 
and  he  had  lost.    There  you  are ! 

A  simple  philosophy,  but  it  had  seen  the  Knifer  through 
life. 

He  heard  the  hither  and  thither  of  footsteps  before  his 
door.  Presently  one  of  the  warders  was  summoned  out- 
side to  whisper  a  moment. 

"  No,  he  is  not  asleep !  "  he  heard  him  say. 

He  knew  that  it  was  the  governor's  voice,  as  much  by 
the  deference  of  the  warder  as  by  the  short,  soldierly  grunt 
of  questioning.  Then  there  sprang  up  the  fragment  of  some 
ancient  childish  lesson — the  Knifer  had  not  the  least  idea 
that  it  was  one  well  known  to  all  the  world. 

399 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

"  '  Suffered  under  Pontius  Pilate  ' !  "  he  murmured  to 
himself.  "  Well,  I  don't  deserve  it — this  time,  at  any  rate — 
and  perhaps  they  will  give  me  an  easier  berth  on  that  account 
— where  I  am  going!  " 

He  heard  a  slight  scuffling  behind  him,  and  turning 
saw  the  two  watchers  go  out.  Then  little  Mr.  Molesay 
came  in,  a  sort  of  divine  gentleness  in  his  eyes. 

"  Hello!  "  said  the  Knifer,  not  unkindly,  but  with  a  sort 
of  surprise,  "  I  didn't  send  for  you.  I  thought  you  would 
be  down  at  your  new  palace — yours  and  Billy's.  It  surely 
cannot  be  .  .  .  time  yet " 

He  faltered  slightly  and  repeated — "  Not  time  yet, 
surely?"  a  little  anxiously.  The  Knifer  had  risen  with  the 
prison  blanket  still  about  him.  He  sat  on  the  edge  of  his  cot. 
With  his  eyes  he  indicated  the  single  chair  to  Mr.  Molesay. 
The  Knifer  was  polite  to  the  last — at  least  to  Mr.  Mole- 
say. But  he  waited  for  him  to  speak  his  message  without 
caring  what  it  was.    Wonder  was  dead.     It  died  with  hope. 

"  You  are  not  guilty  of  this,"  said  Mr.  Molesay  at 
length.     "Why  did  you  not  protest  more  vehemently?" 

"  I  told  them.  They  would  not  believe  me,"  said  Knifer 
Jackson,  "why  should  they?  My  knife  was  found  in  the 
man's  throat!     He  was  a  lord." 

"  Yes,  but  you  know  very  well  that  you  did  not  put  it 
there!"  remonstrated  little  Mr.  Molesay,  his  eyes  shining. 

The  Knifer  glanced  at  the  crack  of  the  door.  It  was 
quite  shut.    Then  he  nodded. 

"I  would  give  a  lot  to  know  who  did  put  it  there!" 
said  the  Knifer,  with  his  first  flash  of  interest. 

"  I  can  tell  you,"  put  in  Mr.  Molesay.  "  A  just  God 
has  brought  the  murder  to  light !  " 

"  Ah !  "  said  the  Knifer,  with  a  catch  of  his  breath,  and 
a  dawning  suspicion.    "  And  they  sent  you  to  tell  me  ?    They 

400 


THE    CONDEMNED    CELL 

are  not  going  to  hang  me  "  (here  his  voice  mounted  higher), 
"  but  they  will  give  me  penal  servitude  for  life.  I  do  not 
want  that.  I  have  had  enough.  I  have  passed  the  bitterness. 
My  mind  is  made  up  to  die — I  will  not  go  back  on  it  now!  " 

Then  very  slowly,  as  if  doling  out  nourishment  to  a 
starving  man,  Mr.  Molesay  told  him  the  story  of  Algernon 
Hammer,  how  his  wife  had  confessed,  how  Hearne  Mac- 
kenzie, the  dead  man's  son,  Captain  Henderland,  and  six 
picked  men  were  even  now  speeding  to  the  capture  of  the 
poor  mad  ex-controller  of  Egham! 

"  But — but,"  gasped  the  Knifer,  his  mouth  suddenly  dry 
as  bone,  "  I  will  not  be  shut  up  for  life — rather  than  that  I 
will  stick  to  it — and  demand  that  they  shall  go  on!  It  is 
my  right.     No  commuting  to  a  'lifer' — I  prefer  to  die!" 

Then  Mr.  Molesay  undoubtedly,  went  a  little  beyond 
his  mission. 

"  Don't  tell  him,"  the  lord  advocate  had  said,  "  that 
there  will  be  a  pardon.  I  have  no  doubt  it  meant  burglary, 
at  least.  But  then  the  poor  creature  has  suffered  enough — 
two  deaths,  certainly.  The  reprieve  is  here.  I  have  no 
doubt  at  all  but  that  the  pardon  will  follow!  " 

Mr.  Molesay,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  broke  his 
plighted  word — or,  rather,  as  the  French  say,  passed  out- 
side it.  He  told  Knifer  that  a  free  pardon  was  undoubt- 
edly coming  to  him  in  consideration  of  his  sufferings. 

The  Knifer  turned  pale  and  then  red  and  then  back 
to  pale  again.  He  jerked  his  finger  in  the  direction  of  the 
prison  yard. 

They   are  taking   down  .  .  .  that   thing  f "  he  whis- 
pered hoarsely. 

He  meant  the  gallows,  which  had  been  prepared  for  its 
function  at  eight  of  the  morning. 

"It  is  gone — passed — there  is  an  end!"  said  little  Mr. 
401 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

Molesay,  taking  hold  of  the  strong-lined,  muscular  hand  of 
the  Knifer  with  both  of  his.  And  for  a  while  the  city 
missionary  talked  low  and  quiet  with  the  man  for  whom 
death  had  opened  its  jaws — into  whose  eyes  eternity  had 
looked.  What  he  said  is  no  one's  business  save  that  of 
these  two. 

"  You  are  a  good  man !  "  said  Knifer,  answering  him 
aloud.  "  But  what  am  I  to  do?  I  have  stolen  all  my  life. 
If  I  were  to  turn  pious  now,  everyone  would  laugh !  Besides, 
I  should  starve!  " 

"  It  strikes  me  that  there  will  not  be  many  to  laugh 
when  you  get  out,"  smiled  Mr.  Molesay.  "  The  '  Blind 
Jacob's  '  lads  are  mostly  neighbors  of  yours  here — or  at 
Perth." 

"What — !"  cried  the  Knifer.  "So  they  tried  another 
job  without  me,  did  they?     Who  were  they?" 

"  Corn  Beef  Jo,  Daddy  Lennox,  Fighting  Nick,  and 
Duffus — they  tried  Egham,  got  frightened  with  something 
they  saw — now  we  can  guess  what — a  dead  man  arranging 
neckcloths  and  brushing  trousers!  So  they  were  taken  like 
so  many  sheep !  " 

The  Knifer  laughed  a  little,  and  was  the  better  for  it. 

"And  poor  Mag?"  he  asked  more  quietly. 

"  She  died  trying  to  save  you,"  said  the  little  mis- 
sionary. "  In  some  ways  you  owe  her  your  life — at  least 
your  first  reprieve.  Otherwise  all  this  would  have  come 
out  too  late  to  do  you  any  good  in  this  world !  " 

"  Poor  Mag!  "  said  the  Knifer,  putting  his  hand  to  his 
brow. 

"  Now,  as  to  yourself,  Jackson,"  the  missionary  went 
on.  "  Mr.  Hearne  will  set  you  down  in  a  new  country 
where  you  can  begin  afresh,  where  you  will  be  as  good  as 

any  man " 

402 


THE    CONDEMNED    CELL 

"  It  might  come  over  me  again,"  said  the  Knifer  sadly. 
"  You  see  I  have  been  at  it  a  long  time.  I  would  not  like 
to  disgrace  you  or  Mr.  Hearne." 

"  There  will  not  be  a  locked  door  nor  a  sixpence-worth 
worth  taking  within  a  hundred  miles!"  Mr.  Molesay  as- 
sured him.  "  You  can  do  smithwork,  woodwork — you  have 
the  ready  hand  that  can  turn  itself  to  anything.  You 
will  climb  to  the  top  of  the  tree  like  a  man  going  up  a 
ladder!  " 

"  And  the  Kid  ?  "  asked  the  Knifer  suddenly. 

"  Lord  Athabasca — that  is — Mr.  Hearne  is  bent  on 
giving  him  a  good  education,"  said  Mr.  Molesay;  "  he  is  to 
learn  mining  engineering.  Some  day  you  may  have  him  out 
there  for  a  comrade — if  you  are  lucky,  Jackson." 

"  For  a  boss!  "  said  the  Knifer  more  clearsightedly. 

Mr.  Molesay  nodded  approval,  and  left,  only  telling 
Jackson  that  he  would  get  news  when  he  was  to  be  set  at 
liberty,  and  that  then  he  must  come  straight  to  his  house. 
Indeed,  he  (Mr.  Molesay)  would  endeavor  to  be  in  waiting 
for  him  at  the  prison  gates.  After  that  they  would  go  to 
Three  Ridings  and  see  Mr.  Hearne. 

At  this  the  face  of  the  Knifer  fell.  And  the  little  mis- 
sionary remembered  what  was  the  last  thing  he  had  seen 
there. 

"  Well,  then,"  he  hastened  to  add,  "  to  Egham  Castle — 
after  this  business  is  over,  I  mean.  Mr.  Hearne  is  about  as 
much  at  one  as  at  the  other  just  now!  " 

The  little  silver-headed  man  took  his  way  down  from 
the  Calton  leaving  the  prisoner  a  prisoner  still.  But  the 
bitterness  of  death  was  past.  The  Knifer's  mind  was  full 
of  a  new  world,  a  new  life.  He  was  not  an  imaginative 
man,  Knifer  Jackson,  and  he  could  not  yet  conjure  up  the 
life  in  those  far  pine  woods  and  beside  those  rushing  waters. 

403 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

He  only  knew  that,  God  (and  Mr.  Molesay)  helping  him, 
the  future  should  not  copy  the  past  for  one  Andrew  Jackson, 
sometime  called  the  Knifer,  who  was  destined,  in  a  logging 
camp  on  the  Kootenay,  to  keep  alight  a  blacksmith's  forge, 
and  to  set  a  saw,  or  shoe  a  horse,  or  put  an  edge  on  an  ax 
with  any  man. 


404 


CHAPTER  XXX 

"  IT  is  well!  " 

UT  now  we  must  follow  the  track  of  the 
chief  of  police,  who  rode  a  little  behind 
Hearne,  and  that  of  the  six  tall  policemen, 
who  rode  at  a  proper  distance  behind  their 
superiors.  What  with  his  trials,  his  re- 
prieves, and  his  weary  waitings,  the  Knifer  had  been  eight 
good  months  in  the  Calton,  and  now  again  the  roads  were  as 
iron  beneath  the  horses'  shod  feet  as  these  men  rode  to  save 
him.  The  frost  bit  keen,  and  it  took  the  men  all  their  time 
to  keep  warm.  It  is  a  rise  of  something  like  a  thousand 
feet  from  the  level  of  Edinburgh  town  to  the  broad  plateau 
of  Maw  Moss,  and  it  seemed  to  the  riders  to  count  about 
the  same  number  of  degrees  of  cold. 

"  Surely  we  can't  be  far  from  the  north  pole  now," 
growled  Captain  Henderland,  slapping  his  thighs  with  his 
gloved  fingers,  just  a  few  minutes  before  the  dark  quadrangle 
of  buildings,  which  was  the  Castle  of  Egham,  hove  into 
sight. 

All  was  black,  silent,  and  deserted.  The  telegram  which 
Baby  Lant  had  sent  at  the  instigation  of  Mr.  William, 
the  butler,  had  apparently  remained  without  effect.  The 
gardeners  and  foresters  had  had  enough  of  Egham  Castle 

405 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

at  present.  The  party  from  Edinburgh  could  not  even  get 
into  the  stable,  so  Captain  Henderland  motioned  one  of  his 
men   forward. 

"  We  generally  keep  an  officer  in  the  force  who  is  learned 
in  all  the  wisdom  of  the  Egyptians,"  he  said.  "  It's  not 
strictly  provided  for  in  the  regulations,  but  a  little  cross  work 
is  necessary  to  our  job  sometimes,  so  as  not  to  get  left  too  far 
behind  by  the  professionals." 

Then  very  swiftly,  after  a  little  tinkering,  but  no  fum- 
bling, the  policeman  had  the  door  of  the  stable  open,  and 
soon  the  horses  were  placed  in  comfort  that  bitter  night. 

"  It  looks  as  if  we  would  have  to  share  their  hay,"  said 
Hearne,  glancing  up  at  the  long  row  of  black  windows. 
But  the  chief  knew  better. 

"  We  can  get  in  yonder,"  he  said,  jerking  his  thumb 
in  the  direction  of  Egham  Castle.  "  I  know  houses  under 
repair.  There  is  always  a  heap  of  sand  or  of  bricks  under 
an  unhasped  window,  generally  in  the  proximity  of  the 
kitchen!  " 

And  the  chief  guessed  rightly.  Even  so,  by  such  a 
window  did  the  eight  men  penetrate  the  darksome,  half- 
underground  kitchen  flat  of  Egham  Castle. 

"Now,  your  lantern — quick!"  said  the  chief,  address- 
ing the  policeman  who  had  opened  the  stable  door. 

By  a  slight  further  infraction  of  Baby  Lant's  property, 
and  upon  Hearne's  volunteering  to  stand  good  for  the  dam- 
age, the  chief  and  he  obtained  creature  comforts  for  the  cold 
and  wearied  men.  As  they  were  partaking  of  these,  there 
came,  clear  and  manifest  from  above,  the  shuffling  tread  of 
a  foot.  Then  a  cough — yes,  of  all  things  in  the  world — a 
cough. 

I  think  there  was  no  one  among  them  who  did  not  quail, 
at  that  dead  hour,  in  that  dead  house,  and  .  .  .  with  a  dead 

406 


"IT    IS    WELL!" 

man  trailing  his  white-wrapped  limbs  tardily  above  looking 
for  a  scarlet  dressing  gown. 

Of  course  they  did  not  believe  in  ghosts — not  a  man 
of  them.  It  must  be  Hammer,  they  knew  that.  But  still, 
they  had  no  objections  to  the  other  fellow  going  first. 
Finally  the  chief,  as  became  his  office,  snatched  the  lantern, 
and  made  for  the  staircase  which  led  from  the  kitchen  to 
the  hall  and  from  that  again  to  the  rooms  of  the  late  Mr. 
Boreham-Egham.    The  rest  followed  as  it  happened. 

But  when  they  had  mounted  the  staircase,  which,  in 
spite  of  the  "  Hsssshs "  of  the  chief  and  the  Indian  expe- 
rience of  Hearne,  they  achieved  with  the  noise  of  a  regiment 
at  a  charge — lo!  they  went  stumbling  over  mounds  of  sand; 
they  overturned  neat  parallelograms  of  fire  bricks;  they  tore 
down  flapping  banners  of  wall  paper  damp  and  in  disarray. 

Then  the  lantern  flashed  all  about  the  rooms.  Nothing! 
They  found  no  soul — not  the  sign  of  a  living  creature,  nor 
spirit  self-manifested,  nor  watching  ghost — nothing  either 
to  put  in  handcuffs  or  to  lay  with  curse  ecclesiastic. 

Then  they  looked  at  each  other,  a  little  foolishly,  it  must 
be  said. 

"  I  could  have  sworn,"  began  Hearne. 

"  I  do  swear,"  said  the  chief,  who  was  a  trifle  peppery 
when  provoked,  "  I  heard  footsteps,  and  if  we  catch  the 
rascal  who  is  making  a  fool  of  us — well !  " 

He  did  not  finish  his  sentence,  but  much  was  left  to  be 
inferred. 

Again  there  was  an  uncomfortable  pause. 

"And  that  woman's  yarn?"  murmured  the  chief. 
"After  all,  was  it  another  plant?  Could  she  be  lying  like 
the  other,  to  save  the  Knifer's  neck?  What  will  the  lord 
advocate  say,  and  the  secretary?  And  I  .  .  .  took  it  all 
upon  myself!    What  a  fool!  " 

407 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

He  groaned,  that  brave,  authoritative  little  chief  of 
police.  His  reputation  for  judgment  meant  a  great  deal 
to  him. 

"  The  light  is  coming,"  said  Hearne.  "  Let  us  go 
through  the  house." 

They  did  go  through  the  house  accordingly.  Save  in 
the  rooms  where  the  workmen  were  actually  repartitioning, 
plastering,  fitting  grates,  and  so  on, 'everything  was  undis- 
turbed— indeed,  in  perfect  order.  Not  a  trace  of  Algernon 
Hammer  did  they  find.  Not  a  bed  had  been  slept  in.  Not 
a  chest  of  drawers  was  unlocked.  Mystery,  deep  and  solid, 
insoluble  by  any  known  process  of  chemistry,  played  upon 
Egham. 

The  fear  of  Mr.  William,  the  butler,  and  the  absence 
of  the  servants  who  had  been  ordered  to  watch — these  things 
did  not  go  well  with  the  theory  of  trickery.  And  then 
there  was  the  strange  dragging  noise  overhead  which  they 
had  all  heard. 

As  the  morning  gray  turned  yellowish  before  the  winter 
sun,  Hearne  went  and  threw  open  the  great  door.  He  ran 
down  the  broad,  monumental,  Palladian  steps. 

"What's  he  muddling  about  among  the  gravel  for?" 
asked  one  of  the  men. 

"  Can't  say,  I'm  sure,"  answered  his  fellow,  on  whose 
temper  the  night  rigors  had  told.  "  Got  a  crack,  they  say. 
His  mother  was  a  Red  Indian!  " 

"Ummm!"  growled  the  other.  "Then  he  may  find 
something.  I  wish  to  gracious  he  would.  This  is  no  sort 
of  work  for  men — standing  about  in  this  teeth-chattering 
funeral  vault.  And  the  chief,  too!  Lor',  what  will  they 
say  in  Glasgow?  What  will  the  secretary  say  if  they  had 
to  let  Knifer  off  after  all  and  we  can't  prove  nothing  against 
anyone  else  ?  " 

408 


"IT    IS    WELL!" 

"  Well,"  muttered  the  first  speaker,  "  I  wouldn't  be  in 
the  chief's  shoes  for — ah,  what's  that?  That  chap  out  there 
is  holding  up  his  hand.     He  has  found  something!" 

They  rushed  down  the  steps  to  the  wide  sweep  of  gravel 
in  front  of  the  main  entrance  of  Egham. 

Hearne  had  nothing  more  mysterious  than  the  brass 
caster  of  a  bedroom  chair  in  his  hand.  It  did  not  seem 
much  to  them.    But  Hearne  had  an  idea. 

"  Follow  me,"  he  said,  "  and  for  the  Lord's  sake — 
softly!" 

"  Take  off  those  boots !  "  commanded  the  chief ;  "  off 
with  them  this  minute!  " 

And  as  the  men  grimaced  at  the  lumpy,  frosty  gravel, 
he  set  them  the  example.  Hearne  did  not  take  off  his,  an 
exemption  which  the  men  did  not  think  fair.  But  the  chief 
only  said,  "He  doesn't  need  to.  He  walks  like  a  cat!" 
And  with  a  sweep  of  his  hand  drew  the  six  officers  close  in 
behind  him. 

Hearne  took  a  careful  line  across  the  gravel.  Two 
slight  scratches  parallel  and  occasional,  as  if  something  heavy 
had  been  sometimes  dragged,  sometimes  carried,  guided  him. 
Then  he  came  to  a  place  where  two  paths  divided,  and 
hesitated  a  little.  The  men  rubbed  their  stockings  plain- 
tively one  over  the  other,  and  thought  that  the  lot  of  a 
policeman  was  not,  indeed,  a  happy  one.  But  the  interest 
of  the  only  great  chase — the  chase  of  man — held  them. 

They  became  interested,  too,  in  Hearne's  doings,  which 
were  curious.  He  laid  his  ear  to  the  ground,  and  rose, 
shaking  his  head.  Then  he  saw  a  twig  which,  budded  by  a 
too  early  autumn,  pushed  on  by  the  November  rains,  and 
nipped  by  the  frost,  had  now  been  bruised  but  not  broken  off 
completely.  The  bud  was  crushed,  but  the  fibers  of  the  twig 
being  tough,  it  was  slowly  returning  to  its  own  place. 
27  409 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

Something  had  passed  that  way  during  the  night — 
perhaps  more  than  once.  But  the  ground  was  too  hard  for 
any  marking  of  footsteps. 

Still,  his  dark,  subtle  eyes  turning  from  side  to  side 
without  his  head  turning  with  them,  Hearne  followed  the 
trail,  and  the  bootless  policemen  came  after,  resolved  to  slay 
him  if  all  this  came  to  nothing.  The  chief,  too,  was  inter- 
ested, but  prepared  to  be  very  angry. 

The  path  ended  abruptly  in  front  of  the  Boreham-Egham 
mausoleum ! 

Hearne  broke  into  a  little  cantering  trot  like  that  of  his 
grandfather  (on  the  mother's  side)  when  upon  the  trail  of 
a  doomed  Assiniboine.  The  sun,  ruddy  and  sulky  through 
the  mists  of  frost,  glinted  level  through  the  trees.  Among 
its  dark  yews  the  door  of  the  great  family  mausoleum  stood 
slightly  ajar.  Hearne  pushed  it  open,  stared  a  moment, 
gave  a  slight  cry,  and  entered.  The  chief  followed.  The 
men  crowded  about  the  entrance.     This  is  what  they  saw: 

Mr.  Algernon  Hammer,  dressed  perfectly,  just  as  he 
used  to  be  in  his  days  as  controller  of  Egham  Castle,  was 
seated  on  a  chair  at  the  foot  of  the  marble  monument  of 
his  dead  master. 

On  a  couple  of  chairs  at  either  side  was  arranged  all 
that  was  necessary  for  his  master's  uprising.  The  clothes 
were  neatly  folded.  The  scarlet  dressing  gown  was  in  its 
place — the  pads  and  straps  and  braces.  Last  of  all  the  wig, 
which  Hammer  had  dressed  every  day  with  his  own  hands, 
hung  over  the  knob  of  the  chair  back  with  a  knowing 
cock. 

But  Algernon  Hammer  was  dead — frozen  stiff  by  the 
rigor  of  that  place  and  the  weakness  of  his  heart.  His  eyes 
were  open  and  he  held  his  hand  half-stretched  out  as  if  to 
assist  his  master  to  get  up. 

410 


"IT    IS    WELL!" 

But  neither  one  nor  the  other  of  those  two  should  rise 
again — till  that  day. 

"  I  have  come  to  make  my  report,  Kid — I  mean  Mister 
McGhie,"  said  a  voice  which  has  been  heard  more  than 
once  in  this  history. 

"  All  right,  Jackson,"  said  the  Kid ;  "  signals  all  clear 
— go  ahead !  " 

The  unchristian  cognomen  of  Knifer  has  never  once 
been  uttered  on  the  western  side  of  the  ocean,  three  thou- 
sand miles  from  which  these  two  now  found  themselves  in 
a  little  rude  cabin,  the  windows  of  which  commanded  a 
straggling  mining  camp. 

"  The  by-products  have  not  averaged  so  well  this  week, 
sir,"  said  Jackson — Foreman  Jackson  of  the  "  Patricia " 
Mine,  apologetically;  "but  to  mak'  up  for  that,  the  whole 
clean  up  is  more  nor  a  hundred  ounces  better!  " 

"  In  a  fortnight  I'll  have  another  stamp  dropping,"  said 
the  Kid,  biting  the  end  of  a  pencil.  "  Well — all  right,  so 
far — and  the  men,  Jackson?  No  trouble  with  them,  I 
suppose?  " 

"  No,  sir,  not  to  speak  of,"  said  the  ex-Knifer,  a  little 
reluctantly. 

"What  is  it?     Out  with  it,   Jackson!" 

The  Kid  was  master  here  and  now — a  thing  his  father 
had  never  been  anywhere,  chief  of  a  clan  though  he  might  be. 

"  Well,  sir,  to  tell  you  the  truth,"  said  Foreman  Jack- 
son, "  there's  a  bad  man,  name  of  Scully — a  tough  from 
'way  back — and  he  has  a  bad  influence  on  the  men." 

"Why,  fire  him!"  the  Kid's  eyes  sparkled.  "Why 
can't  you  fire  him,  Jackson?  Do  you  think  Mr.  Hearne 
pays  us  to  run  the  '  Patricia '  as  a  free-lunch  bar  for 
' toughs '  ? " 

411 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

"  Well,"  said  the  ex-professor  of  "  St.  Jacob's,"  "  I'm 
against  all  violence !  " 

"You?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  Knifer  a  little  sadly.  "  You  see,  if 
I  was  to  begin,  I  don't  know  where  it  might  end.  And  Mr. 
Molesay,  sir,  he  made  me  promise — before  I  left " 

"  Very  well,  then,"  said  the  Kid  with  decision.  "  Then 
I  must  do  it  myself!  " 

He  went  out.  There  was  a  noise  of  what  might  mildly 
be  called  a  small  discussion.  The  Knifer  moved  to  the  win- 
dow of  the  wooden  shanty.  He  set  his  nails  into  his  palms 
to  stop  himself  from  going  out  to  take  a  hand. 

"  Oh,  the  young  'un!  "  he  said — "  such  a  young  'un!  " 

Then  the  Kid — McGhie's  Kid,  that  was — came  back 
again,  breathing  hard. 

"  Chucked !  "  he  said.  "  You'll  have  no  more  trouble, 
Jackson.  I  gave  him  his  wages  and  walking  ticket,  and 
saw  him  start  across  the  divide  for  Forty  Mile  City!  I'm 
like  you,  Jackson — against  all  unnecessary  violence.  But  I 
will  not  have  your  orders  disregarded !  " 

"  Thank  you,  sir!  "  said  Foreman  Andrew  Jackson,  look- 
ing with  a  curious  admiration  at  Mr.  Molesay's  kid  of  the 
goats,  who  had  turned  out  a  man. 

"  What  a  Kid !  "  he  murmured,  as  he  went  out  with 
the  weekly  statement  in  his  hand,  examined  and  counter- 
signed. 

Baby  Lant  is  still  to  be  had  for  the  asking.  Many,  in- 
deed, have  asked  and  have  not  received.  Heiress  of  Egham 
— a  new  and  remodeled  Egham — young,  rich — and,  Baby 
Lant — yet  in  spite  of  all,  her  time  has  not  yet  come. 

She  pets  Marthe  and  her  babes,  and  talks  to  her  about 
the   Kid's    wonderful    career.     She    upholds    the    hands    of 

412 


"IT    IS    WELL!" 

Mr.   Molesay,  and,   I   think,  pets  him  a  little,  too.     And 

when   Patricia  comes  across  the  herring  pond  in  winter — 

for  she  loves  not  the  cold — they  have  great  times  shopping, 

for  themselves  and  for  all  the  world.     Pat  talks  chiefly  of 

a  younger  Hearne  Mackenzie,  and  buys  the  most  extravagant 

apparel  for  that  young  gentleman,  who   (it  appears)   is  his 

father's  image,  only,  if  anything,  handsomer.     Certainly,  at 

present,  he  makes  more  noise  in  the  world.     Three  Ridings 

is  very  gay  in  winter,   and  some  day  Baby  Lant  is  going 

back   with    her   sister    (as   she   says)    to   look   for   another 

Hearne. 

"  You    will    have    to   wait   till    this    little    one    grows, 

then,"  says  Pat,  "  for  there  is  no  one  in  the  world  like  his 

father!" 

Which,  after  the  years,  is  an  excellent  and  most  wifely 

spirit. 

•  •  •  .  . 

It  was  a  November  evening,  early  dark,  and  the  two 
girls,  Pat  and  Baby  Lant,  found  themselves  cozily  installed 
at  the  house  in  Glencairn  Crescent,  which  the  Eghamites  and 
the  Three  Ridings  people  had  found  so  convenient  that  they 
had  retained  it,  paying  the  rent  between  them. 

"  To-night,"  said  Baby  Lant,  "  do  you  know  what  we 
are  going  to  do?  " 

"  I  do  not,"  said  Patricia,  "  but  if  it  is  anything  dis- 
graceful or  of  the  gender  madcap  (to  which  you  belong)  I 
warn  you  that,  as  a  respectable  married  woman  and  the 
mother  of  a  family,  I  shall  have  nothing  to  do  with  it!  " 

"  Do  you  see  these?  "  said  Baby  Lant. 

She  pointed  to  a  pile  of  clothes — doubtful,  second-hand- 
looking  clothes — on  her  sister's  bed. 

"Take  them  off  my  quilt — at  once — at  once!"  cried 
Patricia  with  quite  unusual  violence.     And  without  waiting 

413 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

for  Baby  Lant  to  obey,  she  settled  the  matter  herself  with 
a  single  clutch. 

"  I  got  these  through  Ashbucket  Moll,"  said  Baby  Lant, 
watching  but  not  offering  to  assist  her  operations.  "  They 
have  been  well  washed  and  are  now  as  clean  as — your 
precious  heir  to  the  title  of  Athabasca  just  after  his  bath! 
Well,  we  are  going  to  put  these  on " 

"You  may — I  won't!"  cried  Patricia  fervently. 

"  Yes,  you  will,"  said  Baby  Lant,  "  when  you  know 
what  it  is  for.  We  are  going  to  see  Mr.  Molesay  in  his 
new  B.  I.  P.  He  has  lots  of  help  now — from  priests  to 
prima  donnas.  But  this  is  his  own  night.  Anyone  can  ask 
for  advice,  or  stop  and  speak  to  him  alone.  He  won't  know 
us  in  these  things.  And — if  anybody  wants  good  advice, 
Pat,  it's  you — with  such  a  temper  as  you've  got,  and  the 
abuse  you  deal  out  to  a  loving  and  innocent  younger  sister!  " 

"Fiddlesticks!"  said  Patricia.  But  all  the  same  she 
let  herself  be  overpersuaded.  Besides,  she  did  want  to  see 
the  little  missionary,  for  in  spite  of  husband  and  heir  to  a 
lordship,  in  spite  of  half  a  province  of  pine  forests  and  pos- 
sible gold  mines,  she  was  the  old  Pat  still. 

They  took  the  steep  way  down  to  the  Cowgate.  They 
were  two  poor  women  to  look  at.  Baby  Lant  wore  a  veil, 
but  the  open,  summer-tanned  look  on  Patricia's  face  did  as 
well.  They  walked  purposefully,  and  so  no  one  spoke  to 
them.     For,  of  course,  that  is  the  secret. 

As  of  yore,  the  British  Imperial  Palace  was  glittering 
with  lights.  It  was  after  the  hour  of  public  meeting,  but 
they  entered  a  smaller  hall  where  there  were  women  with 
bowed  heads,  and  men  who  sat  looking  straight  in  front  of 
them  with  that  stony  stare  which  tells  of  a  suddenly  smitten 
conscience — that  is,  among  such  as  dwell  in  the  Cowgate. 

As  Atalanta  foretold,  Mr.  Molesay  was  alone  on  the 
414 


"IT    IS    WELL!" 

platform.  He  was  reading  slowly  a  chapter  out  of  the 
Gospel  of  Matthew.  But  he  turned  hither  and  thither, 
searching  for  this  text  and  that  other.  His  hair  had  changed 
from  silver  to  something  like  the  radiance  of  frosty  star- 
light. His  face,  turned  to  the  little  book  in  his  hand,  had 
upon  it  a  glow  warm  and  kindly  as  firelight. 

He  was  reciting  his  text  a  second  time  before  "  speaking 
a  few  words  upon  it  " — Mr.  Molesay's  words  were  always 
few  and  excellently  ordered. 

"  And  everyone  "  (he  began  slowly,  spacing  the  words) 
"  that  hath  forsaken  .  .  .  houses,  or  brethren,  or  sisters, 
...  or  father,  or  mother,  ..." 

He  lifted  his  eyes  and,  under  the  plain  dress  and  poor 
woman's  disguise,  he  knew  Patricia  at  the  first  glance.  But 
his  voice,  though  it  checked,  did  not  falter.     He  went  on: 

"  Or  wife,  or  children,  ...  or  lands,  for  my  name's 
sake,  shall  receive  an  hundredfold  ..." 

Then  the  voice  of  the  reader  broke  away  in  a  kind  of 
gust,  or  gale  of  the  spirit. 

"An  hundredfold  they  shall  receive!"  he  cried.  "Ah, 
it  would  need  to  be — it  would  need  to  be!  For  how  hard 
is  that  giving  up — O  Lord,  Thou  alone  knowest!" 

He  closed  the  book.  The  two  women  sobbed,  Patricia 
and  Baby  Lant  together — they  knew  not  very  well  why. 
But  on  their  faces  were  the  only  tears.  For,  when  the  little 
missionary,  Archbold  Molesay  of  the  silver  head  and  the 
childlike  spirit,  met  them  he  was  smiling.  His  eyes  were 
glad,  and  he  said  only,  "  Is  it  well  with  you,  my  friends?  " 

And  through  their  tears  Pat  and  Baby  Lant  answered 
him,  after  the  fashion  of  their  nation,  by  another  ques- 
tion: 

"  And  with  you,  Mr.  Molesay,  is  all  well?  " 

And  taking  his  eyes  for  the  first  time  off  Patricia's  face, 
415 


FISHERS    OF    MEN 

he  regarded  the  emptying  halls  of  the  B.  I.  P.     Without, 
through  the  open  doors,  he  saw  the  damp,  misty  shiver  of 
the  Cowgate  street  lamps  on  the  greasy  paving  stones,  and 
he  answered,  "  It  is  well !  " 
And,  indeed,  it  was  well. 


(i) 


THE    END 


416 


BOOKS     BY     S.     R.    CROCKETT. 

Uniform  Edition.    Each,  J2mo.    Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  For  a  good  Scotch  story,  faithful  to  locality  and  quaint  neighborhoods, 
in  its  every  particular,  commend  us  to  S.  R.  Crockett." — The  Courier,  Boston. 

The  Lilac  Sunbonnet. 

Twenty-third  thousand. 

"A  love-story,  pure  and  simple,  one  of  the  old-fashioned,  wholesome,  sun- 
shiny kind,  with  a  pure-minded,  sound-hearted  hero,  and  a  heroine  who  is  merely 
a  good  and  beautiful  woman  ;  and  if  any  other  love-story  half  so  sweet  has  been 
written  this  year  it  has  escaped  our  notice." — New  York  Times. 

"The  general  conception  of  the  story,  the  motive  of  which  is  the  growth 
of  love  between  the  young  chief  and  heroine,  is  delineated  with  a  sweetness  and 
a  freshness,  a  naturalness  and  a  certainty,  which  place  '  The  Lilac  Sunbonnet' 
among  the  best  stories  of  the  time." — New  York  Mail  and  Express. 

Cleg  Kelly,  Arab  of  the  City.    His  Progress  and 
Adventures. 

Illustrated.     Twelfth  thousand. 

"  A  masterpiece  which  Mark  Twain  himself  has  never  rivaled.  ...  If 
there  ever  was  an  ideal  character  in  fiction  it  is  this  heroic  ragamuffin." 

— London  Daily  Chronicle. 

"  In  no  one  of  his  books  does  Mr.  Crockett  give  us  a  brighter  or  more 
graphic  picture  of  contemporary  Scotch  life  than  in  'Cleg  Kelly.'  .  .  .  It  is  one 
of  the  great  books." — Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 

The  Standard  Bearer. 

An  Historical  Romance.     Ninth  thousand. 

"Those  of  his  friends  who  read  Mr.  Crockett  all  the  more  eagerly  because 
the  wholesome  country  air  blows  through  his  books,  because  the  heather  flames 
in  his  landscapes,  and  because  he  is  never  tired  of  drawing  women  as  pure  as 
they  are  lovable,  may  turn  to  '  The  Standard  Bearer '  with  unimpaired  trustful- 
ness. We  have  enjoyed  this  tale  heartily,  and  we  feel  sure  that  in  this  respect 
we  shall  have  thousands  of  companions." — The  Literary  World,  London. 

Lads'  Love. 

Illustrated.     Eighth  thousand. 

"  It  seems  to  us  that  there  is  in  this  latest  product  much  of  the  realism  of 
personal  experience.  .  .  .  Rarely  has  the  author  drawn  more  truly  from  life." 

— London  Athenceum. 

Bog-Myrtle  and  Peat. 

Sixth  thousand. 

"  Hardly  a  sketch  among  them  all  that  will  not  afford  pleasure  to  the  reader 
for  its  genial  humor,  artistic  local  coloring,  and  admirable  portrayal  of  character. " 

— Boston  Home  Journal. 

D.    APPLETON    AND     COMPANY,    NEW    YORK. 


WHERE    LOVE    CONQUERS. 


The  Reckoning. 

By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

The  author's  intention  is  to  treat,  in  a  series  of  four  or  five 
romances,  that  part  of  the  war  for  independence  which  particularly 
affected  the  great  landed  families  of  northern  New  York,  the 
Johnsons,  represented  by  Sir  William,  Sir  John,  Guy  Johnson,  and 
Colonel  Claus ;  the  notorious  Butlers,  father  and  son,  the  Schuylers, 
Van  Rensselaers,  and  others. 

The  first  romance  of  the  series,  Cardigan,  was  followed  by  the 
second,  The  Maid-at-Arms.  The  third,  in  order,  is  not  completed. 
The  fourth  is  the  present  volume. 

As  Cardigan  pretended  to  portray  life  on  the  baronial  estate  of 
Sir  William  Johnson,  the  first  uneasiness  concerning  the  coming 
trouble,  the  first  discordant  note  struck  in  the  harmonious  councils 
of  the  Long  House,  so,  in  The  Maid-at-Arms,  which  followed  in 
order,  the  author  attempted  to  paint  a  patroon  family  disturbed  by 
the  approaching  rumble  of  battle.  That  romance  dealt  with  the 
first  serious  split  in  the  Iroquois  Confederacy ;  it  showed  the  Long 
House  shattered  though  not  fallen ;  the  demoralization  and  final 
flight  of  the  great  landed  families  who  remained  loyal  to  the  British 
Crown ;  and  it  struck  the  key-note  to  the  future  attitude  of  the 
Iroquois  toward  the  patriots  of  the  frontier — revenge  for  their 
losses  at  the  battle  of  Oriskany — and  ended  with  the  march  of  the 
militia  and  continental  troops  on  Saratoga. 

The  third  romance,  as  yet  incomplete  and  unpublished,  deals 
with  the  war-path  and  those  who  followed  it  led  by  the  landed 
gentry  of  Tryon  County ;  and  ends  with  the  first  solid  blow  de- 
livered at  the  Long  House,  and  the  terrible  punishment  of  the 
Great  Confederacy. 

The  present  romance,  the  fourth  in  chronological  order,  picks 
up  the  thread  at  that  point. 

The  author  is  not  conscious  of  having  taken  any  liberties  with 
history  in  preparing  a  framework  of  facts  for  a  mantle  of  romance. 

Robert  W.  Chambers. 
New  York,  May  26,  igoj. 

D.    APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,     NEW    YORK. 


WORKS  OF  ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS. 


IOLE 

Colored  inlay  on  the  cover,  decorative  borders,  head- 
pieces, thumb-nail  sketches,  and  tail-pieces.  Frontispiece 
and  three  full-page  illustrations.  i2mo.  Ornamental 
Cloth,  $1.25. 

Does  anybody  remember  the  opera  of  The  Inca,  and  that  heart-breaking 
episode  where  the  Court  Undertaker,  in  a  morbid  desire  to  increase  his  pro- 
fessional skill,  deliberately  accomplishes  the  destruction  of  his  middle-aged 
relatives  in  order  to  inter  them  for  the  sake  of  practice  ? 

If  I  recollect,  his  dismal  confession  runs  something  like  this  : 

"  It  was  in  bleak  November 
When  I  slew  them,  I  remember, 
As  I  caught  them  unawares 
Drinking  tea  in  rocking-chairs." 
And  so  he  talked  them  to  death,  the  subject  being  "What  Really  Is  Art?" 
Afterward  he  was  sorry — 

"  The  squeak  of  a  door, 
The  creak  of  a  floor, 
My  horrors  and  fears  enhance  ; 
And  I  wake  with  a  scream 
As  I  hear  in  my  dream 
The  shrieks  of  my  maiden  aunts  !  " 

Now  it  is  a  very  dreadful  thing  to  suggest  that  those  highly  respectable 
pseudo-spinsters,  the  Sister  Arts,  supposedly  cozily  immune  in  their  polyga- 
mous chastity  (for  every  suitor  for  favor  is  popularly  expected  to  be  wedded  to 
his  particular  art) — I  repeat,  it  is  very  dreadful  to  suggest  that  these  impeccable 
old  ladies  are  in  danger  of  being  talked  to  death. 

But  the  talkers  are  talking  and  Art  Nouveau  rockers  are  rocking,  and  the 
trousers  of  the  prophet  are  patched  with  stained  glass,  and  it  is  a  day  of  dinki- 
ness  and  of  thumbs. 

Let  us  find  comfort  in  the  ancient  proverb  :  "  Art  talked  to  death  shall  rise 
again."  Let  us  also  recollect  that  "Dinky  is  as  dinky  does;"  that  "All  is 
not  Shaw  that  Bernards  ; "  that  "  Better  Yeates  than  Clever  ;  "  that  words  are 
so  inexpensive  that  there  is  no  moral  crime  in  robbing  Henry  to  pay  James. 

Firmly  believing  all  this,  abjuring  all  atom-pickers,  slab  furniture,  and 
woodchuck  literature — save  only  the  immortal  verse  : 

"  And  there  the  wooden-chuck  doth  tread  ; 
While  from  the  oak  trees'  tops 
The  red,  red  squirrel  on  the  head 
The  frequent  acorn  drops." 

Abjuring,  as  I  say,  dinkiness  in  all  its  forms,  we  may  still  hope  that  those 
cleanly  and  respectable  spinsters,  the  Sister  Arts,  will  continue  throughout  the 
ages,  rocking  and  drinking  tea  unterrified  by  the  million-tongued  clamor  in 
the  back  yard  and  below  stairs,  where  thumb  and  forefinger  continue  the 
question  demanded  by  intellectual  exhaustion  : 

"  L'arr  1     Kesker  say  l'arr  ?  " 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY,  PUBLISHERS,  NEW  YORK 


"A  beautiful  romance  of  the  days  of  Robert  Burns." 

Nancy  Stair. 

A  Novel.  By  Elinor  Macartney  Lane,  author 
of "  Mills  of  God."     Illustrated.     i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  With  very  much  the  grace  and  charm  of  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson,  the  author  of  '  The  Life  of  Nancy  Stair '  com- 
bines unusual  gifts  of  narrative,  characterization,  color,  and 
humor.  She  has  also  delicacy,  dramatic  quality,  and  that 
rare  gift — historic  imagination. 

"  *  The  Life  of  Nancy  Stair '  is  interesting  from  the  first 
sentence  to  the  last ;  the  characters  are  vital  and  are,  also, 
most  entertaining  company;  the  denouement  unexpected 
and  picturesque  and  cleverly  led  up  to  from  one  of  the 
earliest  chapters;  the  story  moves  swiftly  and  without  a 
hitch.  Robert  Burns  is  neither  idealized  nor  caricatured ; 
Sandy,  Jock,  Pitcairn,  Danvers  Carmicbael,  and  the  Duke 
of  Borthewicke  are  admirably  relieved  against  each  other, 
and  Nancy  herself  as  irresistible  as  she  is  natural.  To  be 
sure,  she  is  a  wonderful  child,  but  then  she  manages  to 
make  you  believe  she  was  a  real  one.  Indeed,  reality  and 
naturalness  are  two  of  the  charms  of  a  story  that  both 
reaches  the  heart  and  engages  the  mind,  and  which  can 
scarcely  fail  to  make  for  itself  a  large  audience.  A  great 
deal  of  delightful  talk  and  interesting  incidents  are  used  for 
the  development  of  the  story.  Whoever  reads  it  will  advise 
everybody  he  knows  to  read  it;  and  those  who  do  not  care 
for  its  literary  quality  cannot  escape  the  interest  of  a  love- 
story  full  of  incident  and  atmosphere." 

"  Powerfully  and  attractively  written." — Pittsburg  Post. 
"  A  story  best  described  with  the  word  •  charming.'  " 

—  Washington  Post, 

D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY,    NEW    YORK. 


LOVE,  HONOR,  AND  BEAUTY. 

The  House  of  Hawley. 

By  Elmore  Elliott  Peake.  i2mo.  Orna- 
mental Cloth,  $1.50. 

Sweet  is  the  adjective  that  most  properly  applies  to  this 

entrancing  novel.     It  is  a  pure,  lovely  story  of  a  grand  old 

man,  a  beautiful  young  girl,  and  her  noble  young  lover. 

The  dainty  descriptions  of  the  heroine  and  her  friends  are 

so  crisp  and  vivid  that  the  reader  is  awe-stricken  at  the 

writer's  grasp  of  the  beautiful  in  life.     The  scene  is  laid  in 

southern  Illinois,  and  that  locality  will  henceforward  have 

a  definite  place  in  fiction. 

"  '  Egypt,'  better  known  to  geographers  as  a  region  of  southern  Illi- 
nois, is  seven  hours'  ride  from  Chicago  by  train,  but  a  century  apart  in 
customs  and  atmosphere.  Mr.  Peake  has  found  in  it  a  new  setting  for 
the  old  theme  of  true  love  never  running  smooth,  and  has  added  to  the 
leisurely  charm  of  the  story  by  close  character  drawing  of  the  unusual 
types  in  this  eddy  of  American  life." — Booklovers,  Philadelphia. 

"'The  House  of  Hawley,'  by  Elmore  Elliott  Peake  is  one  of  the 
1  homiest '  stories  we  have  met  in  a  long  while.  .  .  .  Instead  of  calling 
so  often  for  the  great  American  novel,  perhaps  we  should  give  more 
attention  to  the  many  good  American  novels,  of  which  'The  House  of 
Hawley '  is  one,  containing  faithful  and  interesting  portrayal  of  life  in 
some  one  of  the  many  and  diversified  sections  of  the  country." 

— New  York  Globe. 

"  '  The  House  of  Hawley  '  is  a  fresh,  readable  story  by  Elmore  Elliott 
Peake,  the  theme  of  which  is  laid  in  the  '  Egypt '  of  southern  Illinois. 
The  title  fits  better  than  usual,  and  the  characters  depicted  are  real 
people.  There  is  not  a  single  stick  of  dead  timber  among  the  various 
men  and  women." — Chicago  Record- Her  aid. 

"  If  you  have  ever  lived  in  southern  Illinois  or  the  Missouri  and 
Kentucky  neighborhoods  on  the  opposite  banks  of  the  Mississippi  and 
Ohio  rivers,  you  may  make  a  pleasant  holiday  trip  there  through  the 
pages  of  this  book.  The  word  pictures  are  as  faithfully  rendered  as  if 
done  by  the  lens  of  a  kodak." — Minneapolis  Times. 

"There  is  not  a  dull  page  in  the  whole  book.  It  is  well  worth 
reading." — St.  Louis  Star. 

D.    APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,     NEW    YORK. 


THE  MASTERPIECE  OF  A  MASTER  MIND. 

The  Prodigal  Son. 

By  Hall  Caine.    i2mo,  Ornamental  Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  The  Prodigal  Son  "  follows  the  lines  of  the  Bible  para- 
ble in  the  principal  incidents,  but  in  certain  important 
particulars  it  departs  from  them.  In  a  most  convincing 
way,  and  with  rare  beauty,  the  story  shows  that  Christ's 
parable  is  a  picture  of  heavenly  mercy,  and  not  of  human 
justice,  and  if  it  were  used  as  an  example  of  conduct  among 
men  it  would  destroy  all  social  conditions  and  disturb  ac- 
cepted laws  of  justice.  The  book  is  full  of  movement  and 
incident,  and  must  appeal  to  the  public  by  its  dramatic 
story  alone.  The  Prodigal  Son  at  the  close  of  the  book 
has  learned  this  great  lesson,  and  the  meaning  of  the  parable 
is  revealed  to  him.  Neither  success  nor  fame  can  ever  wipe 
out  the  evil  of  the  past.  It  is  not  from  the  unalterable  laws 
of  nature  and  life  that  forgiveness  can  be  hoped  for. 

"  Since  '  The  Manxman  '  Hall  Caine  has  written  nothing  so  moving 
in  its  elements  of  pathos  and  tragedy,  so  plainly  marked  with  the  power 
to  search  the  human  heart  and  reveal  its  secret  springs  of  strength  and 
weakness,  its  passion  and  strife,  so  sincere  and  satisfying  as  '  The  Prodi- 
gal Son.'  " — New  York  'Pimes. 

"  It  is  done  with  supreme  self-confidence,  and  the  result  is  a  work 
of  genius." — New  York  Evening  Post. 

"  '  The  Prodigal  Son'  will  hold  the  reader's  attention  from  cover  to 
cover." — Philadelphia  Record. 

"  This  is  one  of  Hall  Caine's  best  novels — one  that  a  large  portioD 
of  the  fiction-reading  public  will  thoroughly  enjoy." 

—  Chicago  Record-Herald. 

"  It  is  a  notable  piece  of  fiction." — Philadelphia  Inquirer. 

"  In  'The  Prodigal  Son'  Hall  Caine  has  produced  his  greatest  work." 

— Boston  Herald. 

"  Mr.  Caine  has  achieved  a  work  of  extraordinary  merit,  a  fiction  as 
finely  conceived,  as  deftly  constructed,  as  some  of  the  best  work  of  out 
living  novelists." — London  Daily  Mail. 

"  '  The  Prodigal  Son '  is  indeed  a  notable  novel ;  and  a  work  that 
may  certainly  rank  with  the  best  of  recent  fiction.  .  .  ." 

—  Westminster  Gazette. 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 


WIT,  SPARKLING,  SCINTILLATING  WIT, 
IS  THE  ESSENCE  OF 

Kate  of  Kate  Hall, 

By  Ellen  Thorneycroft  Fowler, 

whose  reputation  was  made  by  her  first  book, 
"  Concerning  Isabel  Carnaby,"  and  enhanced  by  her 
last  success,  "  Place  and  Power." 

"  In  '  Kate  of  Kate  Hall,'  by  Ellen  Thorneycroft  Fowler,  the  ques- 
tion of  imminent  concern  is  the  marriage  of  super-dainty,  peppery- 
tempered  Lady  Katherine  Clare,  whose  wealthy  godmother,  erstwhile 
deceased,  has  left  her  a  vast  fortune,  on  condition  that  she  shall  be 
wedded  within  six  calendar  months  from  date  of  the  testator's  death. 

"An  easy  matter,  it  would  seem,  for  bonny  Kate,  notwithstanding 
her  aptness  at  sharp  repartee,  is  a  morsel  fit  for  the  gods. 

"  The  accepted  suitor  appears  in  due  time  ;  but  comes  to  grief  at  the 
last  moment  in  a  quarrel  with  Lady  Kate  over  a  kiss  bestowed  by  her 
upon  her  godmother's  former  man  of  affairs  and  secretary.  This  inci- 
dent she  haughtily  refuses  to  explain.  Moreover,  she  shatters  the  bond 
of  engagement,  although  but  three  weeks  remain  of  the  fatal  six  months. 
She  would  rather  break  stones  on  the  road  all  day  and  sleep  in  a 
pauper's  grave  all  night,  than  marry  a  man  who,  while  professing  to  love 
her,  would  listen  to  mean  and  malicious  gossips  picked  up  by  tell-tales 
in  the  servants'  hall. 

"  So  the  great  estate  is  likely  to  be  lost  to  Kate  and  her  debt-ridden 
father,  Lord  Claverley.  How  it  is  conserved  at  last,  and  gloomy  appre- 
hension chased  away  by  dazzling  visions  of  material  splendor — that  is 
the  author's  well-kept  secret,  not  to  be  shared  here  with  a  careless  and 
indolent  public." — Philadelphia  North  American. 

"  The  long-standing  reproach  that  women  are  seldom  Tiumorists 
seems  in  a  fair  way  of  passing  out  of  existence.  Several  contemporary 
feminine  writers  have  at  least  sufficient  sense  of  humor  to  produce  char- 
acters as  deliciously  humorous  as  delightful.  Of  such  order  is  the 
Countess  Claverley,  made  whimsically  real  and  lovable  in  the  recent 
book  by  Ellen  Thorneycroft  Fowler  and  A.  L.  Felkin,  '  Kate  of  Kate 
Hall.'  " — Chicago  Record-Herald. 

"  '  Kate  of  Kate  Hall '  is  a  novel  in  which  Ellen  Thorneycroft  Fowler 
displays  her  brilliant  abilities  at  their  best.  The  story  is  well  constructed, 
the  plot  develops  beautifully,  the  incidents  are  varied  and  brisk,  and  the 
dialogue  is  deliciously  clever." — Rochester  Democrat  and  Chronicle. 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 


LOVE.  MYSTERY.  VENICE. 


The  Clock  and  the  Key. 

By  Arthur  Henry  Vesey.  i2mo.  Ornamental 
Cloth,  $1.50. 

This  is  a  tale  of  a  mystery  connected  with  an  old  clock 

The  lover,  an  American  man  of  means,  is  startled  out  of 

his  sensuous,  inactive  life  in  Venice  by  his  lady-love's  scorn 

for  his  indolence.     She  begs  of  him  to  perform  any  task 

that  will  prove  his  persistence  and  worth.     With  the  charm 

of  Venice  as  a  background,  one  follows  the  adventures  of 

the  lover  endeavoring  to  read  the  puzzling  hints  of  the  old 

clock  as  to  the  whereabouts  of  the  famous  jewels  of  many 

centuries  ago.     After  following  many  false  clues  the  lover 

ultimately  solves  the  mystery,  triumphs  over  his  rivals,  and 

wins  the  girl. 

AMERICA. 

"  For  an  absorbing  story  it  would  be  hard  to  beat." — Harper's  Weekly. 

ENGLAND. 

"  It  will  hold  the  reader  till  the  last  page." — London  Times. 

SCOTLAND. 

"  It  would  hardly  suffer  by  comparison  with  Poe's  immortal  '  Gold  Bug.'  " 
^Glasgow  Herald. 

NORTH. 

"  It  ought  to  make  a  record." — Montreal  Sun. 

SOUTH. 

"  It  is  as  fascinating  in  its  way  as  the  Sherlock  Holmes  stories — charming 
—unique." — New  Orleans  Picayune. 

EAST. 

"  Don't  fail  to  get  it."— New  York  Sun. 

WEST. 

"  About  the  most  ingeniously  constructed  bit  of  sensational  fiction  that 
ever  made  the  weary  hours  speed. " — SI.  Paul  Pioneer  Press. 

"If  you  want  a  thrilling  story  of  intrigue  and  mystery,  which  will  cause 
you  to  burn  the  midnight  oil  until  the  last  page  is  finished,  read  '  The  Clock 
and  the  Key.'  " — Milwaukee  Wisconsin. 

"One  of  the  most  highly  exciting  and  ingenious  stories  we  have  read  for 
a  long  time  is  '  The  Clock  and  the  Key.'  "—London  Mail. 

D.     APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,     NEW     YORK. 


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